


Viridescence (Or, the Life Cycle of a Native Man)

by novamare



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: @brielle--setting the themes to wumbo, Age Difference, Alternate Universe, Anal Sex, Bloodplay, Canon-Typical Violence, M/M, Minor Character Death, New Orleans, Oral Sex, Southern Gothic AU, hallucinations and other forms of madness, historical(ish), probably too many nature metaphors, requisite cannibalism, will is vaguely suicidal, winston is the only pure one here
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-16
Updated: 2018-11-16
Packaged: 2019-08-24 14:15:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 7
Words: 82,302
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16641774
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/novamare/pseuds/novamare
Summary: In the bayou just outside 1919 New Orleans, Will Graham is grieving the death of his father and learning, far too quickly, that he must give up the isolation he has known his entire life in order to survive. On a trip into New Orleans to purchase chicory for his coffee, Will learns about the Axeman, a serial killer terrorizing the city, and meets Dr. Hannibal Lecter, a wealthy foreigner with an alligator smile. Against his better judgement, he allows the foreigner back to his cabin in the bayou.What should terrify Will instead excites him, and, as a dangerous romance buds between them, Will learns that taking a life is much easier than letting one go.





	1. A Meeting

**Author's Note:**

> Written in participation for the Murder Husbands Big Bang 2018. Without all the lovely folks there, this story would have never seen the light of day.
> 
> Art by the wonderful [carrioncrowned](http://www.carrioncrowned.tumblr.com).
> 
> (Also, shoutout to the guys at Joe & the Juice on Broadway, where most of this story was written. They never kicked me out even though I stayed for 8 hours at a time and talked _way_ too much about eating people.)

 

__

 

_oh, when the saints go marching in_

A humid curtain of fog disappeared into the bayou, or rose from it. Tendrils of Spanish moss dripped from branches and skimmed the surface of the dark water, heavy and stagnant. An old, reliable pirogue floated between the sprawling roots of two cypress trees, still but to rock with the breathing of its solitary occupant. Will Graham held a long fishing rod, waiting for a tug, a rippling at the algae and duckweed. He had grown up on the water, hadn’t left but a handful of times in the twenty-five years of his life, and then only for New Orleans, an hourlong walk west, over muddy earth and under a cypress canopy that barely allowed faint shards of sunlight to filter through. He had grown up on the water, keeping quiet, keeping still, disappearing into the swamp. Just like his father had taught him.

A corpse laid on the bed in his cabin, wearing the Sunday clothes Will had dressed it in. Perhaps it was still his father, unmoving and unbreathing like the bayou. Finally, Will thought, waiting for a tug at his fishing line, _finally_ his father had found commune with the warm murk.

_oh, when the drums begin to bang_

Will was quiet except for a soft humming that barely penetrated the early morning haze, as the last croaking frogs faded into woodpecker rhythms. He imagined they were horns and snares, and that the trees were townhouses, and the pirogue an electric streetcar. He’d only ridden on one once, when his father had taken him into town on his twentieth birthday to buy a pair of new shoes.

A faint vibration pulled at the fishing line, and Will jumped into action, jerking the pole back to set his hook deep in the creature’s mouth. A faint sweat prickled at his skin, from forehead to lower back, as Will began to pull up on the line, muscles strained against the violent lurching under the surface of the water. A stranger would believe, in that moment, that the bayou was coming to life; but it was always alive. In the hunt, however, in the struggle between fisherman and catfish—for something that strong _was_ a catfish—the electricity that usually laid dormant, weighted down by the fog and the heat, sparked up to reveal itself.

_oh, when the stars fall from the sky_

With a low grunt, Will hauled the catfish into the flat-bottomed pirogue, but the tussle was not over. The monster, weighing no less than thirty pounds of pure muscle and fight, thrashed on the bottom of the boat, rocking it in the water and displacing the duckweed that had settled around it. The fish bled from the mouth, where a sturdy and sharp hook tore through its swampy flesh. Will, whose balance on the wobbling boat had never failed him, raised a foot and stamped his heel between the catfish’s eyes to stun the creature.

His father had taught him everything he knew. How to tie a hook, how to fight a catfish, how to kill a catfish, how to prepare and eat one. How to read, how to speak, how to see the things in the bayou that no outsider ever could see. How to hear the weather in the frogs and birds. How to walk so that nothing was left behind except footprints that would soon melt back into a pristine and muddy ground. How to make chicory coffee and nurse a cup all day. How to clean and bandage wounds, how to prevent them in the first place. How to light fires with damp wood, how to keep warm when the winter cold frosted over the ground and left layers of crystalline ice on the leaves. How to be quiet when everything else was loud, how to be silent when everything else was quiet.

But there were many things his father had never bothered to teach him. How to sell fish in the city, how to understand their creole—slightly different but worlds apart from his own. How to smile at strangers and meet their eyes. How to buy chicory for their coffee and kerosene for their lamps. How to walk on solid ground, how to walk on manmade ground, how to walk on no ground at all. How to read the faces of a dozen strangers all at once. How to know what to say and when to speak and when not to speak.

Will had never had to know those things. His father had taken care of them.

After a second hard strike, bare foot to slippery skin, the fish went limp, and Will set to extracting the hook from his catch.

_oh, when the moon turns red with blood_

Will returned home with the catfish slung over his shoulder, still humming. His toes sank into the marshy ground, which gave under his weight like a sponge. Distant barking brought a soft smile to Will’s face, and the barking got closer and closer until a mutt was barreling toward him, looping around his legs, sniffing at the catch, pressing a cold, wet nose against Will’s side.

“Shh, Winston,” Will murmured, and the dog obeyed with a happy loll of the tongue. Giving the mutt a scratch on the head and getting sloppy licks on the hand in return, Will said, “I know, you’re hungry, aren’t you?”

A cabin emerged from the fog, an isolated example of humanity in the deep swamp. It sat on stilts lifting it high out of the water, but the damp had seeped in regardless. A soft scent of rot permeated the gnarled wooden walls, but as Will grew closer to his home, so too strengthened the smell of hot chicory coffee. The last of the chicory coffee. Will knew he would have to go into the city.

Jutting out from the cabin was a small porch with an old rocking chair where his father had died, and Will stopped there to set his catch down. He pulled a knife from his pocket and sliced through the catfish’s thick body, letting the dark blood drain over the wooden floorboards and his muddy feet. Winston lapped up what he could until Will shooed him off with a push.

When the fish had been bled dry, Will wiped his hands on the legs of his already dirty overalls. He wore no shirt underneath, and the heavy denim scratched pleasantly at his skin. Picking the fish up again—holding it against his chest, breathing in the brine—Will carried his catch into the cabin, which was warmer even than the haze outside.

Everything was in a single room, separated by threadbare rugs on the floor. Kerosene lamps lit the dark corners, and in one corner was a bed with a white crocheted blanket laid over the body of Will’s father.

_oh, when the trumpet sounds its call_

Morning melted into afternoon, and the last of the chicory coffee collected at the bottom of a battered steel cup on the table where Will was filleting the catfish with a sharp kitchen knife. Sunlight had replaced fire, and the kerosene had run out. If Will left now, he could make it into New Orleans and back before sundown, but that would not give him time to fish again and prepare a large enough catch to afford chicory and kerosene. Glancing over to his father’s body, Will knew the most valuable thing in the cabin could buy all the chicory and kerosene anyone could ever need, and then perhaps a beignet on top of that.

A small, ticking pocket watch, silver and engraved with a spread-winged monarch butterfly. It was tucked now into his father’s coat and had been kept in a drawer, wrapped in scraps of old fabric for the past several years. No one needed the time—at least not told on an elaborately expensive timepiece—in the bayou. The frogs and the woodpeckers and the catfish and the sun were the clocks.

Barking returned, Winston back from his jaunt, and Will stood, taking a towel with him to the door. Winston nosed at his legs as he stepped out onto the porch, and Will bent over to pick up each of the dog’s paws and wipe the mud off them. It was only then that he let the mutt inside. Winston trotted up to the table, sniffing the catfish and giving Will a pitiful, begging whimper.

“It’s raw,” Will said, crossing his arms over his chest. As if the dog could understand him—Will liked to think he could—Winston huffed and walked over to his favorite corner, where a thin red rug was covered in mottled hair. Animal bones surrounded the rug: alligator, muskrat, something large and sturdy and almost human. Winston took one in his mouth and seemed to smile as he watched Will prepare the catfish for cooking.

_oh, when the horsemen begin to ride_

Will tossed small chunks of fried fish to Winston as he picked at his own lunch. While he ate, Will glanced between his father’s corpse and the window that looked out over the porch and the bayou. The humid heat was setting in, walking into the city now would be unpleasant, and he wasn’t sure if he wanted to go at all. Of course he did, he always used to beg to see the city, to taste the treats, to feel the solid ground under his feet. But that had been with his father, who always carried the bayou with him.

Something would have to be done with the body, Will figured. A mausoleum in the city would be too expensive, and not in his father’s taste, anyway. _Not stone_ , his father would say, _no, put me in the water_. Will had seen the lifeless bodies of herons and king snakes drifting with the slow, almost imperceptible current. They would soon be snapped up by nearby creatures, indiscriminately hungry.

When he had finished eating, Will cleaned up and packed a small bag with his shoes, which he only wore in the city, and a towel. He changed out of his overalls, pulling on a soft cotton undershirt and loose trousers with the legs rolled up to just under his knees. A button down shirt went into his pack, along with a handful of his father’s nicest clothes, which would no longer be needed. Perhaps they could be sold.

Just as Will was leaving, with Winston rubbing against him, he paused, glanced at the corpse on the bed once again, and sighed. Reaching into his father’s black jacket, worn and smelling of the warm water and duckweed and cypress and rot, Will took the pocket watch and turned it over in his palm. A butterfly trapped in the silver, or so it seemed, looking almost orange.

It would no longer be needed, either.

_oh, when the fire begins to blaze_

Will was humming again as he walked west, his footsteps gentle over the soft, wet ground, and flies and mosquitoes buzzed around him. He shook his head a few times, his brown curls seeming to float in the haze. Sweat soaked his white cotton shirt, and the pack on his back pressed the fabric to his skin, where it stuck and chafed with every step.

Winston had hung back a mile ago, leaving Will alone to enter the city. It had been five years since he’d last seen the streets and the bright buildings and the streetcars and the life. In those five years, he knew only his dog, his father, and the bayou.

With every step, the ground under him became firmer, the trees letting more hot sunlight through, nature becoming quieter and quieter until he could hear faint strains of jazz music. Not the song he was humming—it was the only one from the city he knew—but another. Horns and snares and warm, clear voices. Cottages became shotguns became townhouses, and mud became cobblestones became pavers. Large metal automobiles, glossy and black and loud and smelling of burning and unlike anything Will had ever seen, drove down the streets beside the streetcars.The music was still murky, as if coming from the sky, and Will felt a deep anxiety set into him.

Eyes found him, traced his movements through the streets, and no one spoke to him, just watched. The outsider. He could hear tendrils of conversation, in languages he did not know, dissolve as he came into view and weave together again as he passed by. Swallowing heavily, sweat prickling at his forehead, Will adjusted the pack on his shoulder.

A newsboy ran by carrying the last of the morning’s rounds and wearing a worried, innocent expression that turned into a frown when he noticed Will, who was barefoot and coming in from the wild. The boy dropped a paper and did not stop to retrieve it. Will bent over to pick up the newspaper and read its bold type. His father would sometimes bring papers back to the cabin, mostly to use as kindling, but also for reading. Will enjoyed the stories, even as a child.

This one, dated 4 September, 1919, offered a dramatic headline that did nothing to soothe Will’s unease.

_AXEMAN STRIKES AGAIN—YOUNG WOMAN ATTACKED IN DEAD OF NIGHT, SURVIVES BUT REMEMBERS NOTHING_

A chill ran down Will’s spine as he dropped the paper and continued into town, the eyes following him as he went. Stopping on a corner to pull the towel and shoes from his pack, Will wiped down his toes the way he had Winston’s paws, and pulled his shoes onto clean feet. The hard ground dug into the soles of his feet the way the mud did not. The sun burned deeper now without the trees to filter and the haze to scatter the rays. There had never been so many eyes on him at once, eyes that stared and did not blink and followed his movements until they could no longer.

Perhaps that was not true. Perhaps there had been so many eyes on Will before, but certainly they had never been human eyes.

He wandered through the streets, having half forgotten why he had come into the city at all. Everything caught his attention, distracted him. Buildings in colors Will had only seen, or never seen, in nature, people—so many people—doing jobs that Will had never considered. The sweet, yeasty smell of fresh pastries, mixed with the exhaust from automobiles. There had been articles in the papers about them, how expensive they were, how luxurious. To think it all had existed only an hourlong walk west of him. Music. Music everywhere, songs from one storefront blending into songs from street performers blending into songs from other storefronts. Will hummed along to calm his growing anxiety.

Hanging plants decorated the balconies alongside wrought iron and women with their hair piled up on their heads, holding parasols and glancing down at him as he passed. He stared as much as they did. How could he not? Colorful signs offered pastries and shoes and liquor and grocery and clothes and potions and things unique to the city that Will had lived the majority of his life without. Could have continued to live without, if he hadn’t gotten a taste of chicory coffee and the flickering of a lamp at night.

Will walked slowly, his eyes wide and every sense overwhelmed. A dark, sweet scent caught his attention, pulling him down the street to a shop whose elegant sign read _Dr. Du Maurier’s Medicines_ and whose bright, blood red door was covered by vining ferns. A glossy black automobile sat on the street outside the shop, reflecting the sunlight like water. The scent, heavy and sultry, wafted out from the shop, and Will followed it blindly. It was almost like magnolia blossoms, or perhaps peaty, rotting earth. Something so familiar, and yet so unusual.

The interior of the apothecary was bold—reds and yellows and bright, unnatural greens—and the walls were covered in shelves holding jar after jar of dried herbs. Bundles of dried flowers hung from the ceiling, and tables in the center of the large main room were bowing under the weight of books and trinkets, each arranged into displays surrounding a single topic. Will nearly bumped into the display containing hypodermic needles and premixed bottles of _Dr. Du Maurier’s Miracle Oil_ , which promised to reduce fatigue and inspire creativity. The text was small, and Will didn’t dare to pick a bottle up. At any rate, the Miracle Oil was not the source of that scent.

At the back of the store, behind a wide counter, was a large double door, painted a bright red to mirror the front door, and a staircase blocked off by a heavy iron chain that had a vine threaded through its links and up a column. Strange patterns drawn in dark paint covered the ceiling, where an electric fan turned the scent in the air and offered a cool reprieve from the sun.

But the shop was empty. Will stood alone among all the goods, searching for a scent that his nose was quickly becoming accustomed to such that he almost could’t smell it anymore.

Careful like a hunter, Will stepped around the displays, over to the counter. As he got closer, a quiet, intricate blend of melodies and harmonies seeped out from behind the red doors—nothing that Will could identify, but it sounded unlike the rest of New Orleans. He listened for a moment, a headache forming at the base of his skull, before he reached out and tapped at a bell that sat on the counter. It rang out, bright and clear, and the music stopped abruptly.

The red doors opened a moment later, and a blonde woman wearing a fashionable dress—soft yellow silk, with green botanical embroidery—emerged, followed at a distance by a tall and broad man wearing a deep green and brown plaid suit, his cheekbones sharp and his lips tense. Will’s eyes lingered a moment too long, curious, for the man resembled an animal from the wild, but which one he couldn’t quite say.

“How can I help you?” the woman said, her voice elegant but somewhat pinched. Her eyes fell on Will as everyone else’s had, hot and keen, and she looked him up and down. When he didn’t speak—for _she_ was the source of that sweet smell; a perfume, perhaps, but a peculiar one if so—the woman, whose lips and cheeks were rouged and contrasted with her too-blue eyes, said, “Sir? You rang the bell?”

Will swallowed heavily, face blank, before nodding and saying, “Yes. I need chicory.” He sounded young, cautious. Unlike himself or the idea of himself that the bayou had formed in his mind.

The woman’s face softened and she almost laughed. The man behind her smiled and said, with a casual tease, “He needs chicory, Bedelia. Surely you have some laying around.” A grand gesture to the open store followed, and Bedelia swatted at the man’s arm. Will frowned. The man’s accent was unlike anything he had ever heard, although admittedly he did not know many accents. Regardless, it did not sound like the various creoles of Louisiana, nor anything else Will could place on a map.

“Yes, I imagine I do,” Bedelia said, stepping out from behind the counter and weaving through shelves and tables and displays.

Will watched her until the man said, “Have you traveled far?” Will flinched when he looked at the man, whose smile was simultaneously elegant and dangerous. An animal in disguise. But his eyes were warm, amused. An alligator, perhaps.

It was a moment before Will had parsed the comment fully—through the accent and the distraction—and then, nodding once, he said, “From the bayou.”

Bedelia returned then, carrying a large root with her. Will frowned. It was not the chicory he knew. All he knew of chicory came from a can that his father added to ground coffee. What he knew looked rather like ground coffee itself. Bedelia rounded the counter again, once again standing between Will and the alligator man, and set down the brown root. She reached for a receipt book, scrawling down the purchase and glancing up at Will to say, “That’s two dol—”

“Is that chicory?”

The alligator man laughed, and Will felt a deep flush of embarrassment rise from his collar to stain his cheeks. Bedelia’s brow furrowed and she glared at the alligator man and said, “ _Hannibal_ , what has gotten into you? That’s rude.” When she looked back to Will, her expression softened and she said, “Yes, this is chicory root. Were you looking for something else instead?”

Will swallowed heavily, his eyes flicking between the blonde woman and the alligator man, Hannibal. A strange name, one that Will had the urge to test over his own tongue, but all he said was, “My father puts it in coffee.” A moment of reconsideration. “Or, he used to put it in coffee.” It wasn’t exactly bizarre to speak of his father as a dead man. After all, it was a matter of fact now. And yet, still he had misspoken.

“Oh,” Bedelia said, seeming to understand now, and she opened her mouth to continue, but it was Hannibal who spoke first.

“It is the same, is it not?” He stepped up to stand shoulder-to-shoulder with Bedelia, picking up the chicory root and turning it over in his hands, inspecting it. The anxiety that had already set into Will did not ease when Hannibal glanced up from the chicory to look at him, and it felt like the dark alligator eyes were boring into his mind.“You roast this root, then grind it. I believe that is the usual preparation.”

Bedelia nodded and took the chicory from Hannibal’s hands, setting it again on the counter. “Chicory does well for the gut. Also as a paste applied to swellings. Roasting the root defeats these purposes, although perhaps it improves the flavor.”

All Will was skilled at cooking was catfish and, when his father could afford the ingredients, bread spiced with the peppergrass that Will could find around the far cabin, which was a short trip from his own cabin by pirogue. The far cabin—once used by resting hunters—was long abandoned, with edible plants surrounding it haphazardly, and it was Will’s bayou grocery. Roasting wasn’t a foreign concept to Will, but it was one that he had never properly put into action, and one he was not sure how to implement if he needed to. His cabin had an old wood-burning stove that was a mosquito repellant during the worst summer nights, and it was already difficult enough to find dry firewood for frying, let alone the long roasting process.

“So?” Bedelia asked then, leaning against the counter and offering Will a soft smile. Hannibal behind her was smiling as well, although his was sharper, more angular. Dangerous. Too much like an alligator. Bedelia pushed the receipt across the counter and said, “It’s two dollars and fifty cents for the root.”

More than he’d ever seen in his life. His father only ever kept small change after his trips into the city. Never more than fifty cents, for that was money wasted in the bayou. Will’s face paled. He would have to do without the chicory—for still he knew little of civilized life, and the idea to visit a grocer had yet to strike him. And yet, he needed the chicory. It felt to Will almost as if his father or a phantom of his father was encouraging him. Pulling the pack from his shoulder, Will opened it and pulled out his father’s clothes and pocket watch. “I have no money,” he said then, not meeting Bedelia’s too-blue eyes. “I can trade these.”

“Nonsense,” Hannibal chimed in then, reaching into his suit jacket and pulling out a stack of bills, counting out three of them and sliding the money across the counter to Bedelia, who was barely able to mask the surprise on her face.

Will felt himself flush again, and he shook his head, still holding his father’s clothes in his clenched fist. “Sir,” he said, his voice coming out cracked and almost shaky, “It’s too much. You don’t even know me.”

Hannibal’s smile widened even further, sharp teeth emerging and seeming to glint in the electric lighting. “Ah, well. Shall we remedy that? My name is Dr. Hannibal Lecter. And you are?”

Still shocked by a stranger’s generosity, Will could not help but feel like he owed this Dr. Hannibal Lecter—and what an impossibly elegant name, Will thought—something. Owed him a name, at the very least. “William Graham,” he said before blinking, breaking their eye contact to look back over the shop, still empty but for the three at the counter. When he returned his gaze to Hannibal, Will cleared his throat a little and said, stronger now, “Will.”

“Now that you know each other,” Bedelia said, interrupting to wrap the chicory root in butcher’s paper, “thank you for visiting Dr. Du Maurier’s Medicines, and please come again.” Her face had gone darker, her mouth pulled tight, almost sour, and she tossed a casually dangerous glare at Hannibal, whose smile had yet to fade. Will frowned then, confused and feeling as if he had missed something important.

Before he could ask, Hannibal said, “You said you came from the bayou. Was it a long walk? Perhaps you would like a ride home?”

“Hannibal, that’s—”

“A perfectly reasonable offer. It would be dark before our dear Will made it home, and I imagine that’s rather dangerous in the bayou, is it not? Even in the city, Bedelia. Haven’t you read the headlines?”

Will had. The twisting anxiety that had wrapped around him as he came into the city made its presence known yet again. Nighttime in the bayou was not what scared him. Rather, nighttime in New Orleans, where he had nothing but his father’s clothes, a pocket watch, and a chicory root to protect himself. City dwellers wore boots, after all. Carried weapons, looked over their shoulders.

Bedelia said nothing, just pursed her lips and turned to add the dollar bills Hannibal had given her to the cash register bolted to the counter.

“So?” Hannibal said, cocking his head just slightly to the side. The patterned tie around his neck was a mottling of dark, swampy greens. The tailored suit something like coon’s tail shoots nearing wintertime, or rotted cypress roots. “My automobile is just outside.”

After a moment, Will shook his head and said, “The ground will not hold an automobile very far outside the city.”

“Then I will take you until the ground does not hold any longer.”

_oh, when the saints go marching in_

Will remembered halfway out of New Orleans that he was supposed to buy kerosene, for the lamps in his cabin were nearly empty, and he had not enough firewood to keep the stove burning through the night, or even until he could find rest.

He was sitting in the passenger seat of Hannibal’s large automobile, which was cold and hard and everything Will did not know in this world, and he wrapped his arms around the pack he held in his lap, feeling small. He stared out the glass windshield until he remembered about the kerosene, when he turned to look at Hannibal, whose face in profile was almost more striking than from the front. Sharp. Mouth flat but relaxed. A straight nose and prominent chin, strong jaw, defined brow. Will was staring, and he swallowed heavily when Hannibal glanced at him, a single eyebrow raised, and said, “What is it, Will?”

“I need kerosene. I forgot.”

Hannibal paused before saying, “Yes, I believe we can do that.”

_oh, lord, I want to be in that number_

The tires of Hannibal’s automobile began to sink into the ground about half a mile from Will’s cabin, and the engine seemed to struggle just to get them that far. Will stared out the window, catching glances of Hannibal in the glass’s reflection, but mostly he watched the nature passing by too quickly as the sun began to set, turning the sky a brilliant purpling red.

“Is it much further?” Hannibal asked, shutting off the automobile’s engine.

Will shook his head. “Ten minutes walking. Perhaps longer with the kerosene.” The heavy jug sat between his feet. He was not weak—after all, catfish could weigh a hundred pounds if the season was good—but he could not very well sling a jug of kerosene over his shoulder like a catfish.

Alligator eyes—too warm in the setting sun—glanced down to the jug just as Will did, and then Hannibal said, “If you would allow me to help, then it would take only ten.”

“You’re wearing shoes.”

Hannibal frowned and said, “Of course, as are you.”

Indeed, he was. The ones that had gotten more wear in the past few hours than in the past few years. Will began pulling the shoes off, tucking them into his pack, and then he was barefoot again. Not quite comfortable, for how could he be, in an automobile with a stranger? Not comfortable, but closer. Quietly, Will said, “The ground will ruin them.” Holding his pack in his lap, fingers going white with how tight he gripped the straps, Will bit his lip before saying, “Thank you, Dr. Lecter, but I should believe you don’t belong in the bayou at all.”

“I belong nowhere, Mr. Graham,” Hannibal said after a moment, his voice low and every bit as dangerous as Will had imagined. And yet, once the words had settled in the air between them, Hannibal smiled, his teeth now glinting in the sun as well, and said, “Please, it would be rude not to escort you all the way home.”

_oh, when the saints go marching in_

The cabin on its stilts was a dark shadow within the heavy fog, backlit by the last remnants of daylight. If Will could capture and exist within a single moment for the rest of his life, he imagined it would be in the bayou twilight, when the heat was sweet, sticky, and languid, when the frogs and crickets began their songs, when the still water started to ripple with the hidden hunting of terrible, beautiful creatures.

Hannibal was quiet, carrying the jug of kerosene in one hand and his shoes in the other. Back where they had left his automobile, he had rolled up his trouser legs, while Will had stared intentionally out past the horizon.

With every step, Will believed he had made a terrible mistake bringing this man here. Alligators hunt at dusk, his father had told him.

“This is it,” Will murmured as they came up on the cabin. He turned to take the jug from Hannibal, saying, “Thank you for the help, Dr. Lecter. If you follow our trail back, you should find your automobile without much trouble.”

Hannibal did not release the jug immediately, rather cocked his head to the side and said, “You would not even offer me a cup of chicory coffee? That’s rather rude, isn’t it?”

Rude? Will paled, glancing down at where his fingers lingered at the handle of the jug. No one but he and his father ever came to the cabin. Was it rude to bring a stranger here? Rude to—

Winston came running, his snuffling nose bypassing Will to press against Hannibal, who released the jug to pat the dog’s head. “Who is this?”

“Winston.”

“Well, Winston,” Hannibal said, scratching the mutt behind the ears, “you’re a much better host than Will, aren’t you?”

If bringing Hannibal this far was a mistake, allowing him inside the cabin would be a disaster. Will swallowed heavily, trying to think of some way to turn Hannibal away without telling him about his father’s corpse on the bed. He could not give Hannibal any reason to believe he might be the Axeman. Could not let the city seep into his life here. Could not let an alligator smell the blood on his hands.

“I would have to roast the chicory. It would take too long,” Will said, shifting the heavy jug from one hand to the other. His shoulder ached, and the rest of him was equally uncomfortable, for different reasons.

Hannibal shook his head and said, “Nonsense. It would take two hours at most. I imagine you have never attempted it, and I would be happy to show you.” Winston pressed up against the man’s legs before losing interest and disappearing back into the amber haze of sunset, which was slowly twisting into a dusky purple. Hannibal watched the dog go before glancing back at Will, an eyebrow raised, and saying, “I would be happy to prepare a meal, as well, if you like. I’m rather famished, and do enjoy cooking.”

There was no answer but to allow Hannibal into the cabin, it seemed. Cornered like a hunted rabbit, scared frozen, unused to the attention or the fear. Will stared at their bare feet, sinking into the marshy ground, at Hannibal’s lower legs, exposed where his trouser legs had been rolled up, then at Hannibal’s face. Alligator smile, alligator eyes.

“My father died last night,” Will said suddenly. So much for secrets, it seemed. “There hasn’t been a funeral yet…”

A flash of something that might have been shock, although Will was not well trained enough to identify it before it disappeared, crossed Hannibal’s face. Will glanced over his shoulder at the door to the cabin, where the wood seemed to rot with age, and the other man’s eyes followed.

“The clothes, then? The pocket watch?”

“Yes,” Will said, “they were his.”

There was a moment of silence, punctuated only by the rising din of crickets and frogs and the occasional rippling of alligators and other predators under the water’s surface. A mosquito buzzed between them, landed on Hannibal’s bare neck. Will stared at the insect intensely, and Hannibal let it sit for several measured breaths before reaching up to slap it dead. The sound rang through the bayou, dampened only by the heavy fog. Will flinched back before turning and leading Hannibal up the spindly steps to the cabin and pushing the door open.

_oh, when the saints go marching in_

The usual scent of rot in the cabin seemed to have intensified since Will had left for New Orleans. Cautiously, curiously, Will watched as Hannibal’s nostrils flared against it. The foreigner’s eyes glanced around the cabin and landed—as Will might have expected, if he knew what to expect at all from Dr. Hannibal Lecter—on the bed and the still, bloated body laying on it.

Will set the jug of kerosene next to the single sturdy table, where the last lamps began to flicker and fade away. With as much care as he could manage, he began to refill them, and as he did, the flames returned with a strong jerk. He glanced over his shoulder at Hannibal, who had wandered closer to the bed, standing over Will’s father, hands clasped resolutely behind his back.

“He is handsome,” Hannibal commented, unprovoked, and Will flinched back from one of the lamps as its flame licked up at him. Turning on his heel and striding back toward Will, Hannibal said, voice quiet and dark, “What might consist a funeral in the bayou, Will?”

Finding it difficult to meet Hannibal’s eyes, Will cleared his throat and began to fill the next lamp with hands that were suddenly stricken with tremors. He could feel Hannibal take another step closer by the man’s warmth at his side, and just as Hannibal reached out to hold the lamp steady, Will jerked back and spilled kerosene across the table. His mind went blank, and all he could do was stare at his fuel-covered hands, mouth agape and heart hammering against his ribs.

Certainly it was a mistake to bring the alligator man into to the bayou.

“Ah, we’ve made a mess,” Hannibal said, reaching for a shabby rag that hung over the back of one of the mismatched wooden chairs at the table. He mopped up the spilled kerosene and, with strong, steady hands, wrung what of the fuel he could into the waiting lamp. The dim flame had gone out in the moment, so Hannibal smiled up at Will and said, “A match?”

Will scrambled away to the stove, where he knelt and pulled a matchbox out from under one of the loose floorboards. When he returned and offered the matches to Hannibal, their fingers brushed and Will briefly met the man’s eyes. A curious amusement filled them, and as Hannibal pulled away with the matches, Will said, “I don’t know. I’ve never been to a funeral.” He watched as if transfixed as those same strong, steady hands lit a match in one firm strike and reignited the lamp.

There was silence, now with the bayou muted by the cabin’s walls and the pumping of Will’s heartbeat in his ears, and it was several moments as Hannibal finished filling the last of the lamps before finally the alligator man wiped his hands with the rag and said, “Well, it would not do for such a handsome man to rot in your bed. Shall we give your father the funeral he deserves?”

For several breaths, Will’s throat felt as if it had clamped shut, but the more he watched Hannibal’s movements—agile and steady and so carefully planned that Will imagined Hannibal had never even stepped on an ant he didn’t intend to kill—the more Will realized that his jittery anxiety was one borne less from fear and more from a deep, unspoken curiosity and attraction. There was an undeniable strength hiding under Hannibal’s elegant clothing, a bone-deep self-assurance in the way he moved and spoke that simultaneously unsettled and comforted Will. The accent began to sound less foreign to Will and more like a soft, familiar lullaby. But even this realization set Will on edge. In the bayou, these things could be buried, drowned, hidden. But, as he had learned for the first time only hours ago, the bayou did not comprise the entire world.

“Will?”

The levee broke, and Will nodded fiercely, saying, “Yes. Yes, I would like that.” He busied himself with pointless little chores: folding the rag Hannibal had used to clean the kerosene spill, pushing in the stray chairs, carrying the lamps to the far corners of the cabin until the entire room was bathed in a warm, flickering light. He paused as he set a lamp beside the bed and looked up at Hannibal, saying, “But what shall we do?”

In the dim light, Hannibal’s dark eyes seemed to twinkle, but his face was solemn as he glanced aside to Will’s father. Will’s gaze followed, and he stared upon his dead father’s face for several moments before an idea struck him.

“I have a boat. Perhaps if we took him on the water. Set him over the edge, let him finally…”

Hannibal’s lips, almost sharp and glinting in the lamplight, pulled flat, and he gave a single resolute nod and said, “Become one with the bayou. Yes, that sounds quite perfect. Shaped by God’s hands from the clay of the bayou, and in death kneaded back into it. And when we return, a cup of chicory coffee in the late man’s honor.”

_oh, lord, I want to be in that number_

In the time it took Will to prepare his father’s body—remove and fold the Sunday best, brush his fingers through wispy gray hair, wipe down with a damp cloth the waxy skin turned sticky through the day’s heat and humidity, press a gentle kiss to the forehead—Hannibal set to roasting the chicory, narrating the steps as he took them. His voice was smooth and even and comforting, and Will distracted himself from thinking about his father by committing the instructions to memory.

“Slice the root into thin pieces,” Hannibal said as he did just that, using deft and skilled hands that clearly were used to handling knives. “And dry them so they roast quicker.” His shoulders hunched over the table as he patted each slice with a spare rag. “Then set them to roast.” Hannibal laid the slices on the cast iron griddle on the stove and stoked the wood fire. The pile of dry firewood was dwindling, and Will nearly commented on this fact, but held his tongue as Hannibal approached him, brushing his hands together, and surveyed Will’s work.

With a large swath of linen taken from the bed, Will was wrapping a shroud around his father. In silence, Hannibal stepped out of the cabin, still barefoot, and returned several minutes later with his arms fulls of wet, muddy rocks, which he helped to arrange inside the shroud. Curiously, Will glanced sidelong at Hannibal, but the intention was clear enough. Stone would sink faster than the bloated body of a bayou-frail man. Wiry muscles wrapped around strong bones, and there was nothing to separate the leathery skin from the muscles. All wrapped now in linen, which was permeated by the stench of rot.

Already Will could smell the roasting chicory. It made his mouth water, and then his eyes began to water as well, for the first time since he had found his father motionless and lifeless in the rocking chair on the cabin’s porch. Hannibal was quiet still, but came closer, and Will had not the energy to flinch away this time. He felt instantly drained, the stress of the day catching up with him at once, and as Hannibal’s arms wrapped around him, Will knew he couldn’t fight no matter how much his instincts told him to. He cried as he stared upon his father’s wrapped corpse, smelling the chicory on the stove that his father had never smelled, leaning into the sturdy frame of a foreigner with alligator eyes.

They stood there for what felt like an eternity, until the frogs began to croak, and the crickets to sing. Twilight had fallen, and when Will finally pulled away, Hannibal let him go, saying, “I will carry him if you lead the way.”

Without wiping his eyes, Will nodded and turned his back as Hannibal lifted his father’s body in both arms. There was a faint clacking of stones moving in the shroud, and Will bit his lip almost to bleeding as he rustled through his pack for the pocket watch. He was of half a mind to tuck it into the shroud as well, let it sink to the bottom of the bayou with his father. The other half was inclined to give it to Hannibal as a token of gratitude, and either way in the process remove it from his own life, where it would only remind him of his father.

Pushing his shoulders back and taking a deep breath of damp, chicory air, Will gripped the pocket watch tight and led the way out of the cabin, onto the blood-stained porch, and then down the rickety steps until his toes sank into the mud and finally he felt grounded again. Without looking behind him, Will listened and waited until Hannibal approached, the foreigner’s steps heavier now with the weight of the body in his arms.

It was a long, slow, and somber walk to where Will had left the old pirogue, tied to the roots of a blackened cypress tree. The boat rocked on the mossy surface of the water, and Will almost imagined the rocking as the steps of a large funeral parade, and the sounds of the frogs and the crickets as a jazz band, and Hannibal as a strong and brave pallbearer, and himself as a bright monarch butterfly, flying south for the winter, flying unnoticed to lead the entire procession.

“Is this your boat?”

As Hannibal spoke, the entire fantasy melted away into the fog, and Will swallowed back new tears, saying, “Be careful. The water is deeper than it seems.”

Acutely aware of the suit Hannibal wore, with the trouser legs rolled up around his calves, Will stepped into the edge of the water and reached out to steady the boat. His feet sank into the mud, and he could feel the skittering of tiny creatures around his ankles. The alligators sometimes used this soft transition from land to water to perch, to survey both their domains from the comfort of each.

Will didn’t meet Hannibal’s alligator eyes as the man stepped into the pirogue with the grace of something much more elegant than an alligator. A heron, perhaps.

The boat rocked as Hannibal laid the corpse of Will’s father across one of the bench seats and then again as Will stepped into the pirogue, muddy footprints following him as he took an oar and pushed them away from the shore.

He found himself humming again, disappearing into the sounds of the dusk, that song he had heard only in the city before he had brought it back to the bayou with him. Kept humming until fingers brushed against his ankle; then the song caught, startled, in his throat. When Will glanced down, Hannibal was bent down, carefully detaching a small leech from the side of Will’s foot. Once Hannibal held it free, he gave the creature a squeeze, and Will’s own blood seeped from it before Hannibal threw the leech over the edge of the boat and into the water, where a small frenzy formed as some lucky fish got its dinner.

Will took them halfway to the far cabin and brought the pirogue to a gentle lull in the middle of the bayou. The last bits of twilight had disappeared into the tree cover in the meantime, and now it was dark under the curtain of fog, and silent but for the bayou and their breathing.

“Here,” Will whispered, looking anywhere but at Hannibal or his father. He stood at the rear of the pirogue, and they sat in the center, and it was simple—if not easy—to ignore them. To stare into the nothingness and focus on the fear of the unknown.

Thankfully, Hannibal worked in silence. Wrapping his arms around the shrouded corpse, the foreigner lifted the body—the clacking of rocks together under the linen made Will shiver in the heat—and gently lowered it into the water until the fabric floated like duckweed. But before he let go and let Will’s father sink beneath the surface, Hannibal glanced up to Will and said, “You should watch.”

No, Will thought, he likely shouldn’t. The image would scorch its place in his mind. And yet, he couldn’t help then but watch: the way Hannibal’s wrists and hands strained, the way they then released their burden and skimmed the surface of the black water, the way his father’s pale, limp body slowly disappeared into the bayou.

A silver moon rose steady in the sky, visible in specks through the trees and haze, and shards of its light then fell on the pirogue and on the spot where Will’s father had been laid to rest.

“There is beauty in death, isn’t there?” Hannibal mused, sitting on the bench where the corpse had once sat. Reaching out to brush his fingers across the skin of Will’s wrist, Hannibal said, “Why don’t you sit for a moment, Will?”

Will collapsed in the center of the flat-bottomed boat, and the fatigue of the day caught up with him at once. Hannibal gently rubbed Will’s back, and it was quiet for several minutes before Hannibal began to hum the song that Will had inadvertently taught him.

When Will found himself again, wiping his red eyes and glancing between the foreigner and the water, Hannibal smiled and said, “Even rotting has its sweet smell.”

The moonlight disappeared behind a cloud or a tree’s canopy, and the words that came from Hannibal’s lips twisted dangerously in Will’s stomach. How easy it would be, Will thought then, to follow his father into the bayou. How unusual that there was no stirring under the water, where another lucky creature was about to eat his dinner. How frightening and comforting and strange the man before him was.

“Where are you from?” Will asked, his brow furrowed. “Why are you here?”

The alligator smile returned with a renewed confidence and a new, bitter edge, and Hannibal said, “I come from a country in Europe called Lithuania. I am here because they do not want me, and you do.”

“No, I don’t,” Will said immediately, although he wondered if perhaps it was a lie. The pocket watch he had brought with him suddenly felt to weigh several times heavier, and Will decided then to keep it.

“Ah,” Hannibal said, still smiling and reaching to take the oar from where Will had left it, “but you will.” And before Will could protest, Hannibal was rowing them back the way they came, leaving the body of Will’s father behind in its murky grave.

_oh, when the saints go marching in_

When they returned to the cabin, everything smelled of roasting chicory and burning kerosene lamps and rotting wood. Will was silent as he moored the pirogue again to the cypress tree, but Hannibal had returned to humming quietly, blending into the sounds of the bayou.

There was chicory coffee to make, and Will’s stomach was rumbling with hunger, and Hannibal was ahead of it all. Once inside, the foreigner had gone to collect the chicory from the stove, saying, “And now, once it is roasted, we grind and brew as usual.”

Will let the man do whatever he liked as he sat on the bed and held his face in his hands. Then, there was a scratching at the door, and with a sigh, Will stood to let Winston in for the night. The dog sniffed at Will for a brief moment before trotting over to where Hannibal stood, starting a pot of water over the stove.

“Hello, Winston,” Hannibal said, giving the dog a few strokes on the head. “You’re hungry, aren’t you? So am I. And I imagine Will is, as well. I’ll cook, then.” Looking over to Will, Hannibal said, “What do you have?”

“Catfish,” Will said after a moment, gesturing vaguely in the direction of a few crates in the corner of the cabin, where he kept it all. “A bit of bread. Onions. Flour. Sugar. Salt. A tin of grease.”

“Eggs?”

Will shook his head.

“Well, the world will not end without them,” Hannibal said, moving to rummage through the crates. Will laid down on the bed and curled into himself, feeling immensely tired, and soon Winston popped up on the bed, muddy paws and all—although Will was not much better himself—and curled up with him, wet nose pressed against his cheek.

_oh, when the saints go marching in_

It was just before dawn when Will woke, alone in the bed and alone in the cabin. The blankets had been pulled up close around him. He sat up and stretched, joints popping and cracking with every movement, and frowned as he surveyed the cabin. It was cleaner than it had been when he’d accidentally fallen asleep: Winston’s muddy paw prints and their human counterparts were gone from the wooden floorboards, the food crates were organized, the mismatched chairs were all pushed in around the central table, and the kerosene lamps all burned low. On the stove over the oven, still filled with warm embers, was a plate of fried catfish and something piled up on a slice of toasted peppergrass bread next to a cup of chicory coffee.

The foreigner had cooked for him. And then left in the middle of the night. Will’s mind floated back to the headline he had read the day before in New Orleans, about the Axeman who attacked in the dead of night, and left his victim alive but without a memory.

What had his name been? Hannibal? From Lithuania, because no one wanted him there, but somehow Will did. Except he didn’t, Will thought with a huff as he climbed out of the bed and padded over to the stove.

“But you will,” he murmured to himself, recalling the nearly ominous reply Hannibal had given. Will rather thought he wouldn’t. After all, he would never see the foreigner again, and that was for the best. Still he could feel the phantoms of the strange comfort he had taken in Hannibal’s arms as he mourned. Could still see the bright twinkle of alligator eyes in the moonlight as they watched Will’s father slip away. Could still hear that lilting accent and handsome voice as it hummed funeral songs.

Yes, it was for the best that Will would never see him again, or else Hannibal might be right.

He took the food to the table and just as he sat down, there was a scratching at the door that Will knew well to be Winston begging to come in. He stood and let the dog in, giving him a scratch behind the ears and saying, “An odd night, wasn’t it, Winston? When did he let you out?”

Winston licked Will’s wrist and arm and seemed to smile before going to the food on the table and eyeing it carefully. Will huffed out a soft laugh and shook his head as he returned to his chair, tore off a piece of the fish, and threw it to the dog before digging into his own portion.


	2. A Death

Will had taken to drinking close to five cups of chicory coffee a day, and at that rate, it was gone within the week. More money than he had ever seen in his life, swallowed away so quickly. It would have concerned him, if the drink itself hadn’t been so delicious. Much better than what his father used to bring home in a can. The memory of that chicory was flat and lifeless compared to the warm, murky, robust flavor of the root he had gotten from Bedelia. Will almost wasn’t able to imagine living now without it.

But that would require another trip into New Orleans, and no matter how much Will loved chicory coffee, he wasn’t sure that risk was worth it. And anyway, where would he get two dollars and fifty cents? He’d have to drag a dozen catfish into town and hope that no one else was selling bigger or better ones.

Or, Will thought as he carried an armful of wood into the cabin to dry out next to the fire, he could sell the pocket watch. That would bring in much more than two dollars and fifty cents, and would fund his taste for chicory for at least a year. After all, the trinket had just been sitting on the table for the past week, silver butterfly staring at him wherever he went in the cabin. When he was feeling particularly tired or imaginative, the butterfly spoke to him and sounded like his father, giving him snippets of wise advice from beyond.

“What do you think, Pa?” Will said as he piled the wood near the wall next to the oven. Some part of him had already decided to go, even if his feet had yet to agree.

Perhaps predictably, there was no audible response from the pocket watch or from Will’s dead father, but deep in his chest, Will thought maybe his father was telling him to go. Or maybe that was just the anxiety that accompanied the prospect of returning to the shop where Will had first met Dr. Hannibal Lecter.

He didn’t exactly want to see the foreigner again, but neither did he exactly _not_ want it. Hannibal was dangerous, and Will knew it without knowing the cause. It was simply obvious to him, and it should have told him to run away as quickly as possible. And yet, he could not ignore the arms around him, or the hand at his back, or the meal left behind. Those fleeting memories prodded at him all week, and Will could not seem to forget them, no matter how hard he tried. He’d lost fish for those memories, distracted by a phantom hand at his foot when a catfish bit and disappeared with his bait and without his hook.

A bark came from the corner with the threadbare red rug and animal bones, where Winston laid, head cocked to the side and ears flopping.

“Go to New Orleans? Is that what you say, boy?” Will tossed him a piece of wood, and the dog took happily to gnawing at the fat end of the stick.

If he left now, he could make it to the city before noon. And if he was lucky, that meant he could make it home before it got dark. The days were getting shorter, and Will was less than interested in being stranded in New Orleans at night—especially with such terrors as an Axeman on the loose. But if he went now…

He was going. It had been decided for a while, but only now did his feet move to help him dress in a pair of half-length canvas pants and a loose cotton undershirt with no sleeves. Taking up his pack, including the pocket watch and his shoes, Will let out a deep breath of resolve and left the cabin. He stopped on the blood-stained porch, where his catch of some six catfish from dawn bled out, long enough to let Winston out after him, and then he carried on toward the city, alone, for only the second time in his twenty-five years.

Somehow Will thought he could see in the soft ground the footprints left behind by the foreigner a week ago. Logically, Will knew that nature would have erased them, as Will’s own footprints were erased, and yet somehow, he could make out the steady, firm steps of Dr. Hannibal Lecter. Will followed in them, placing his feet where Hannibal’s had been, and found himself unbalanced by the length of the steps. Near where Hannibal had left his automobile, the footsteps faded, and tire tracks replaced them, deeper and more mechanical.

How wealthy was the foreigner, Will thought, to be able to afford a glossy, slick automobile? Will had never ridden in one except on that night a week ago, and before that, he had only seen a handful in his life. How expensive was an automobile like that, anyway? Will had no frame of reference, and so he just wondered about it as he walked alongside the tracks, until the ground became hard enough that the indentations faded into nothing. Will stopped then to pull his shoes out of his pack and put them on. Still it felt strange to have something between him and the earth, but even stranger to stand out so badly in the city, to burn his feet on the hot streets.

The sounds of the bayou disappeared with the tire tracks, and in their place, music and bustling city noises took over. Will hummed along, timing his steps with the rhythms that drifted between buildings and down streets and wrapped around the entire city like muscle around a gaunt skeleton.

People stared as he wandered into the city. Will still was not used to the looks, and he could feel their hot eyes following him. Brightly colored parasols turned away from him to reveal the curious faces of beautiful city women beneath them, their hair piled up on their heads, their clothes made to their bodies in the popular styles. All staring at Will, the monster coming up from the bayou in years-old, ragged clothing, with a taste for expensive chicory.

“The Axeman strikes again! And again!”

Will’s stomach dropped, and he whipped around to stare at the source of the calls. A young boy in a flat-brimmed cap held a newspaper aloft, reading the headlines from memory.

“Lock your doors! Trust no one!”

The boy was not ten yet, Will would wager. But he couldn’t help but watch as the city child shoved the paper in the face of every passerby. One of them was a scowling man of dark skin and solid frame, who wore a uniform of some sort, although Will was not familiar enough to recognize it. A club hung from his waist, and at the front of his cap was a tarnished silver medallion, and when the man turned to snatch the paper from the child, Will could see in white embroidery on the sleeve of the man’s jacket: POLICE.

“You’ll scare them if you aren’t careful,” the policeman barked at the child, who didn’t shy away or lower his voice as he called out the headline again. Will stopped in the middle of the street, watching the exchange, as people stepped around him, grumbling about bayou creatures.

After selling a paper to a lady in a soft green dress, the boy looked up at the policeman and said, with a innocence that edged on provocation,“Don’t they have reason to be scared, sir?”

Something about that question set the policeman off. His shoulders tensed up, the sweat on his brow glistened in the sun, and he looked around, catching Will’s eyes just long enough for Will to jerk back, and then threw a coin at the boy in payment for the snatched paper before stalking away.

The boy was back to shouting headlines by the time Will felt like he could breathe again. Several people had bumped into him, brushed shoulders, told him to hurry on, and Will had heard none of them. Only the headlines that the child was screaming.

Patting down his pockets, Will found one of the coins that his father had left behind, silver and round, and approached the boy, clearing his throat and saying, “Is this enough?” He offered out the coin, and the boy looked at it for a moment, almost suspiciously, and glanced up to Will as he took the coin and handed over a folded newspaper.

“Stay safe, sir,” the boy said with a tip of his hat. “The police won’t say anything except that they’re trying to find him—the Axeman, that is. But they’re worthless, aren’t they? Especially _him_.” The boy gestured broadly at the dark-skinned policeman who was carrying the crumpled paper down the street, stopping to speak to people every few minutes.

Will glanced down at the paper he was holding now, eyes flitting across the biggest headline of them all, as he said, “Thank you.”

The boy moved on then, shouting the headlines again, selling papers here and there, and blending into the texture of New Orleans once again. Will swallowed heavily and held the newspaper close to his chest as he finally continued onward toward the center of town, where Dr. Du Maurier’s Medicines was located.

He had not gone far before the same policeman stopped him to say, “Excuse me, sir, might you have any additional information leading to the arrest of this Axeman?”

Will startled and shook his head, saying, “No, I don’t think so.”

“No unusual figures you have seen or met recently?”

“No.” A lie, but one that came too easily from Will’s lips.

“And may I ask where you were last night, between the hours of one and two in the morning?” The policeman, whose uniform had _Crawford_ stitched in white above the left breast pocket, took out a notepad and pencil, ready to jot down Will’s answer. “And your name, please.”

Will frowned, adjusting the pack on his shoulder with a nervous scratch at his collar. Surely the policeman didn’t think that _he_ was the Axeman? After a moment, Will told the policeman his name and said, “I was in my cabin all night.”

“Is there anyone who can corroborate your whereabouts?” Crawford asked without looking away from his hands as he continued to scrawl at the notepad. Finally he glanced up to Will, who shook his head.

“I live alone.”

The policeman slapped the notebook closed and slid it back into a hidden pocket. “Very well,” he said, studying Will’s face for a moment. “You don’t look like a dangerous man, anyway, Mr. Graham.”

Will rankled without knowing why, and he cleared his throat to ask, “How long has this been going on, Mr. Crawford?”

“That’ll be Detective Crawford—Jack Crawford, badge number 81,” the policeman said gruffly, flashing the silver medallion on his hat. It had something etched into it around the top edge, but Will couldn’t read it for the glinting sunlight. Crawford’s frown grew deeper as he said, “This’ll be the eighth in three months. The third in two weeks. That we know of, at least.”

“Oh,” Will said with a dumb, black stare.

Crawford nodded once and said, “Right, if you discover anything, Mr. Graham, my office is in the police station on Basin Street. We are offering a fifty dollar reward to anyone giving information leading to the arrest of the Axeman.”

And then the policeman was gone, although Will was still caught up on fifty dollars. To think of all the chicory that could buy him. But Will knew nothing, and most of him wished to keep it that way. It was the other part that finally startled him out of his haze and kept him walking toward Dr. Du Maurier’s Medicines.

The glossy black automobile that Will knew to be Dr. Hannibal Lecter’s was not in front of Dr. Du Maurier’s Medicines. With a sigh of relief and an equal sensation of disappointment, Will stepped into the shop, where the overhead fan helped to dispel the growing heat outside, as the sun reached its peak in the sky. The fan also wafted around the scent that Will now recognized to be the perfume worn by Bedelia, the blonde woman who had sold him—or, more accurately, sold Hannibal—the chicory.

Again there was no one at the counter. The big red doors behind the counter were closed again, although this time Will heard no music coming from beyond them. He wandered around the shop for a while, surveying all the different goods that were on offer. He recognized none of them.

Bulk jars of dried flowers and herbs lined the walls, and one shelf had prepackaged sachets with tags hanging from them. Will picked one up to read the delicate scrawl of handwriting, which identified that particular sachet as containing mugwort and jimsonweed, and called for its user to brew the leaves as a weak tea and drink over the course of a day. What the concoction was meant to heal, the tag didn’t say, and Will didn’t know.

Another sachet contained thistle, witch hazel, and valerian, to be ground with the fat of a young stag and applied to the temples once a week.

Yet another sachet’s contents were to be smoked in a pipe made from the pelvic bone of a plains bison.

Will was entranced, flipping through all the sachets and reading their ingredients and instructions, not knowing what any of them were for, when a woman ran into the shop like a storm, immediately to the counter, and rang the bell there half a dozen times. She was beautiful, Will thought, even frantic and panicking, in a dress made of pure white linen with blue ribbons around her waist and half-length sleeves. She wore a wide-brimmed hat with blue flowers that fluttered as she heaved, and her dark hair had fallen from its chignon to stick to the thin sheen of sweat that coated her face.

She did not notice him frozen there, among the shelves, and proceeded to ring the bell again several times before one of the red doors opened and Bedelia emerged, frowning and pulling up the fallen shoulder strap of a dress in pale pink crepe and lace.

“Alana,” Bedelia said, reaching out to take the other woman’s hand over the counter. At first Will thought it might have been a gesture of affection, but then he realized that the woman was about to ring the bell again. Bedelia finally released her hand and said, “Alana, whatever is the matter?”

The woman’s breath caught in her chest, and she struggled to calm down enough to say, “Margot is missing. Have you seen her?”

A daughter, perhaps, Will thought. A sister, or friend. Someone worth the concern. Will had never had anyone but his father, and now not even him. He stood perfectly still as he watched Bedelia round the corner of the counter and come out to meet Alana. In the process, the blonde woman made eye contact with Will, held it just long enough for Will to suck in a deep breath of something almost like fear, and then ignored him to press the back of her hand to Alana’s forehead.

“You’re burning alive,” she murmured, but Alana began to speak over her, still unaware of Will’s presence.

“I haven’t seen her since yesterday, Dr. Du Maurier. She never came back from her brother’s home. I paid a visit, and he said she had left just after supper. I’ve looked all over, she’s _nowhere_. Have you seen her?”

Dr. Du Maurier? Will bit his lip. That meant that Bedelia owned the shop, didn’t it? He should have realized that sooner, but he hadn’t, and that strange feeling, somewhere between shock and inadequacy, threatened to make him jump or otherwise reveal himself.

Bedelia urged Alana to breathe deeply before darting off to one corner of the store and returning with a small vial, which she uncapped and handed to Alana with the order to, “Drink this,” which the woman in white did without hesitation. Not long after she had downed the potion, Alana’s posture loosened, and she leaned against the counter as if she might fall otherwise.

“I haven’t seen her, no. Now, you’re saying you’ve looked everywhere she might be? Have you called upon her husband’s home?” Bedelia glanced sidelong at Will and raised an eyebrow at him. Will flinched backward and wondered if he should reveal himself to Alana or remain where he was, eavesdropping on this woman’s intimate panic.

Alana nodded and said, her words beginning to slur now, “He knew she was meant to stay with me. He left for Baton Rouge yesterday morning. Their servant said she wasn’t there.” She paused, taking a few deep breaths, and said, staring up at Bedelia, “The servant knows about us, I think. He wouldn’t lie to me about her not being there if she was. I think something happened to her. I fear the worst.”

“What do you fear?” Bedelia prompted, although Will imagined they all already knew the answer.

“The Axeman.”

An uncomfortable silence fell then—perhaps the quietest Will had ever heard in New Orleans. All he could hear was the ceiling fan and the last fragments of music from outside. He emerged then, holding one the sachets, and with a strike of boldness that even he did not expect, went up to Bedelia to ask, “What might this be for, Dr. Mu Maurier?”

Alana perked up at his presence and said, “Excuse me, sir, have you happened to see Margot Verger? She’s about my height, dark hair, gray eyes, wears red lipstick, carries a white parasol, wears sapphire earrings.” She stopped herself from going on as she began to dig through her handbag before pulling out a photograph and showing it to Will. It was of a striking woman in a wedding gown, her arm entwined with a man’s arm, but the man had been cut out of the photo. The woman didn’t smile, but the intensity in her eyes translated even through paper. Margot Verger was a beautiful woman, and one that would clearly be missed. “This is her,” Alana said. “Have you seen her?”

Will hadn’t, and he said so, which only caused Alana to deflate once again, tears beginning to well in her eyes.

“Have you spoken to the police yet, Alana?” Bedelia asked, returning to stand behind the counter and take the sachet from Will’s hand. “This one is for fatigue,” she said, handing it back to him. “The chicory is in the far corner, on the bottom shelf just beneath the tea cakes.”

Of course she had known. Will felt a flush rise to his cheeks as he disappeared to find the chicory, and Alana said, “What can they do? Not a thing yet for the others.”

“Still they must do their jobs, or try to,” Bedelia said patiently.

Will found the chicory and took the largest root he could find, carrying it back to the counter and setting it down just as a revving engine sounded outside and then cut out. Will didn’t register the connection until a familiar hand brushed across the small of his back and Bedelia said, her voice turning slightly sour as she watched the motion, “Hello, Hannibal.”

Alana began her tirade again on the foreigner, ending once again with a pleading, “Have you seen her?”

“I apologize, madam,” Hannibal said, “I have not seen this Margot of yours. I do hope you find her soon, to put your heart at ease.” He sounded so sincere, Will thought. Maybe that was worth something.

Alana thanked them all and disappeared from the shop, apparently off to ask every other person she could find whether they had seen Margot Verger since the day before. Will was of the opinion, cynical or not, that likely no one had. But he said nothing of that, just glanced up to Bedelia and said, “I know I can’t afford this, but perhaps if we could set up some sort of agreement. I sell catfish when I catch them, so I’m sure I could find the money within a week.” He was not sure, but he needed the chicory more than anything in that moment.

As Bedelia was about to respond, Hannibal chuckled and said, “I will happily pay for it, Will. In fact, Bedelia, give Mr. Graham whatever he likes, and give me the invoice.”

Will tried to swallow down his discomfort, with no success, and glanced between Bedelia, who looked halfway irritated and halfway amused, and Hannibal, whose charming smile was focused precisely on Will.

“Dr. Lecter, you have already spent too much on me. I could never repay you,” Will said after a moment. Hannibal was turning the chicory root over in his hands—those same, steady hands that Will had already committed to memory. Dangerous hands. Hands that had carried his father to the grave, hands that had held him close, hands that had prepared a meal that Will ate alone.

It was then, against Will’s better conscience, that he imagined phantom hands at him, firm and warm and connected by strong arms to the phantom body of Dr. Hannibal Lecter. Will flinched back from his own mind and stared resolutely out the door after Alana, thinking that perhaps he should follow her, help her search for her Margot. Anything to get himself away from the very real body of the foreigner standing so close that Will could feel the heat coming off Hannibal, who took one step closer as Will took one step back.

“Dinner is payment enough.”

Bedelia snorted then as she wrote up a receipt on carbon paper.

The anxiety in Will’s stomach returned, and he shook his head, taking a step away from the foreigner. Stuttering his way through, Will said, “I apologize, Dr. Lecter, for falling asleep. It was very rude of me.”

“Nonsense,” Hannibal said with a wide smile. “But I do believe you still owe me a cup of chicory coffee.”

Will said nothing, just looked to Bedelia for help, who was offering none as she wrapped up the chicory. She met his eyes only to ask, “Will that be all for you today?”

Panic began to rise in Will’s chest. His hands began to shake, and his breath rattled in his chest. He desperately wanted one of those vials that Bedelia had given Alana, but couldn’t move to find one and couldn’t speak to ask for one. Somewhere inside him, fear and excitement melted into one, and he was paralyzed by it.

“I’ll drive you home again,” Hannibal offered. “I know the way now, don’t I? And it’s early enough to roast the chicory, make dinner, and eat before you fall asleep again.”

Will shook his head emphatically, but couldn’t find the word _no_ in the jumble of his head.

Hannibal’s smile didn’t droop, but his alligator eyes narrowed as he said, his tone still too casual, “Oh, but that _would_ be rude, wouldn’t it? I’ve bought your chicory twice now. The least you can possibly do is share a cup with me, right?”

“Hannibal,” Bedelia finally said, disapprovingly. But that was all she said.

The foreigner reached out again to slip his fingers under the strap of the pack on Will’s shoulder and took it from him in one swift motion. “I’ll carry this to my automobile for you. Bedelia, the chicory?” Hannibal slipped the root into the pack and then left the shop with it. Will stared after him, wide-eyed and open-mouthed. He glanced to Bedelia, dumbfounded.

“He’s persistent if nothing else,” she said with a shrug of her shoulders as she handed over the chicory root. And then she turned and disappeared again behind the red doors, and Will stood under the fan alone, confused, anxious, and excited. Paralyzed. Until he saw an orange and black butterfly fluttering out of one of the shelves and out the door.

Unsure whether it was real or a figment of his imagination, Will followed it.

This time in Hannibal’s automobile, on the way to the bayou, Will stared at his lap, eyes fixed on his hands, which worried at each other. His thin, if deft, fingers went white under the pressure with which he held them. Still his own imagination bit at him, picturing their hands pressed together, emphasizing the difference between them, as if their voices and bodies and minds were not enough.

“Well, Will,” Hannibal said as they left the city behind them, “have you been reading the newspapers?”

Will did not look to Hannibal, although he could feel the foreigner’s eyes on him. “Only when I come into town,” he murmured, rubbing the back of his hand with the other thumb until the skin there went red. “The headlines do not exactly reassure me that the city is a safe place,” he said, glancing sidelong at Hannibal, who just smiled that sharp-toothed smile.

Once again the automobile stopped just as its wheels began to sink into the earth, and Will bent down to remove his shoes and shove them into his pack, careful not to damage the chicory root. After rolling up the legs of his trousers—this time the fabric was a deep brown with red threads nipped throughout—Hannibal followed suit, leaving his wing-tipped shoes in the footwell of the automobile. He even removed his jacket—Will felt the need to look away as he did so—before folding it carefully and leaving it on the seat when he stood.

Slowly Will stepped out of the automobile, and as his toes met the soft and familiar ground, he felt a tense pull in his gut, telling him simultaneously to run toward his cabin and to run away. He could nearly smell his own discomfort, sweet and rotting like hot sun on bayou wood soaked with sticky catfish blood. All that was missing was the molasses of chicory coffee and stale sweat.

The butterfly returned, floating gently in the air, and Will closed his eyes just in case it was a figment of his imagination. When he reopened them, there were half a dozen orange and red and black butterflies, all flying into the bayou.

“Can you see them?” he asked, his voice quiet and close to shaking.

Hannibal nodded. “Somehow, they are born knowing which direction to fly, as if the memories of their ancestors live within them. Instinct, perhaps.” A single monarch passed between them, and Will shivered despite the midday heat. Hannibal’s eyes followed the butterfly and he said, “Like blood, they spread throughout the continent during the summer, and return to a single mountain in the winter—the heart. A drop may not make the entire journey, but the gallon will, and the heart beats on and the body lives another day.”

Frowning, Will thought about the pocket watch in his pack, which now felt even heavier than before. He had intended to sell it after discussing with Bedelia a payment plan—but Hannibal had arrived in the meantime.

“Shall we?” Hannibal asked after a moment, offering his arm to Will, which Will did not take. As Hannibal took the lead, they walked down the path towards the cabin in silence but for the sounds of the bayou and the fluttering of a million invisible butterfly wings in Will’s ears.

Winston came running as they neared the cabin, happy to catch Hannibal’s scent in the air once again. Will stepped ahead as the foreigner took a moment to stroke the dog’s head and neck. The sticky blood on the porch of the cabin felt warm still: if not from the life of the catfish, from the sun that began now to droop in the sky. Afternoon heat came through the bayou canopy, dappling the mud and water and the man and dog at the border between the two. Will tore his eyes from the scene, trying to ignore the unease curling inside him, like butterflies caught in his ribs.

He left the door open behind him as he stepped into the cabin, dropping his pack—which he had taken back from Hannibal in some display of courage—on the table. He could almost hear the clatter of the pocket watch against the wood, although maybe he was only imagining it.

When Hannibal finally joined him, leaving the happy mutt outside to his own muddy devices, Will bit his lip for a moment, steeling himself, before turning and offering the foreigner a weak smile.

“I should thank you for the meal you left last week,” he said, making eye contact only briefly before looking away again, first to the bed, where he had left the blankets in a heap, and then to the wood stove. And then back to Hannibal as he said, “And, I suppose, apologize for not sharing it with you. It was…a difficult night.”

Hannibal took a step forward—and it took every part of Will’s strength not to step back in time—and said, “Manners are difficult to maintain while mourning. I certainly do not hold it against you, Will.”

Another step forward, and now Will did step back, in some twisted dance that was accompanied only by the usual sounds of the bayou and a shallow gasp by one partner. Clearing his throat, Will said, “I’ll roast the chicory, then.” He moved quickly to follow the steps that Hannibal had shown him a week ago, with the lilting, accented voice still murmuring the instructions in his ear. Will shivered, the blade of the knife he used to cut the root slipping, and in a split second, he had nicked his finger.

It bled more than it should have, and Will stood still and watched, stunned, as the blade and the chicory tinted deep red. Darker than catfish blood.

Hannibal reacted without hesitation, coming up beside Will, taking the knife away from him, and setting it down safely to the side. And then Hannibal took Will’s hand by the wrist and lifted it to his mouth, where he sealed his lips around the small wound and sucked gently until the bleeding slowed. Will stared, wide-eyed, at the spot where his skin met Hannibal’s, and he swallowed heavily at the warmth of Hannibal’s tongue lapping across the wound as the foreigner pulled away.

“If you aren’t careful,” Hannibal’s voice was rougher now, and Will shivered again, “you’ll change the flavor of the coffee.”

Will met Hannibal’s eyes, which flicked between Will’s own, and with a breathless, mirthless laugh, he yanked his hand from Hannibal’s grasp and took the knife up again, slicing the chicory root with intense focus. He was determined to concentrate on anything but the other man, anything but the alligator eyes and sharp smile and strong hands and warm tongue.

It was a relief, then, when Hannibal crossed the cabin to look through the baskets of food in the corner, kneeling as he sorted through the various vegetables picked from around the far cabin and breads that Will had baked to keep himself busy. Busy, Will reminded himself as he stared at the way the heavy material of Hannibal’s suit stretched over his thighs as he squatted, and how the thin white material of his shirt pulled around his shoulders as he reached forward. He returned to staring intently at the chicory as he sliced it, and once he was finished slicing, as he patted the slices dry with a rag.

“I love to cook,” Hannibal said then as he set aside a few ingredients from the baskets. “At home, I was rarely able to do so for myself, unless I was having friends for dinner.” A sharp smile tugged at the corners of his lips. “Of course, I had as many friends as possible, just for the pleasure of cooking and eating a meal of my own.”

Will was quiet, bringing his finger to his lips as the wound began to bleed again. When he had calmed it, several long moments later, he finally said, “Where is home?”

Looking over his shoulder, Hannibal said, “I believe I told you, didn’t I?” He smiled then, almost gentle. “Well, perhaps your memory is hazy from the stress. I come from Lithuania, a small country in—”

“In Europe, yes. But where is home?”

In the moment that Will allowed himself to glance over to Hannibal, he noticed a soft warmth in those alligator eyes, and in that same moment, fear washed over him.

Hannibal laughed quietly and said, “My home is in a region called Aukštaitija.” Will marveled at how beautifully the foreign word spilled from Hannibal’s lips. “It is a family estate, requiring at least one Lecter to be in residence at all times.”

“There are more Lecters than just you, then?”

“Not anymore.”

Will paused as he let the answer settle in the air, and when he snapped back into motion, it was to light the wood stove and set the dried chicory slices over it to roast. As he worked, he said, “If you are required there, why are you here?”

Before there was a reply, there was a shuffling as Hannibal stood and carried the ingredients he had chosen to the table.

“I believe I told you that, as well.”

Struck by a sudden boldness—the same that had come over him in Bedelia’s shop earlier—Will turned around and shook his head, saying, “You were wrong.”

That made the alligator eyes flash and the sharp, alligator smile return. The foreigner took the knife that Will had used and turned it in his hands, seeming to inspect the blade. For what, Will did not know. Perhaps damage, perhaps blood. Perhaps for his own reflection.

“I am not at my estate because I am in exile.”

There was a simplicity with which Hannibal spoke that made Will frown. “Why?” he asked, leaning back against the stove until his wrist met hot iron, and he pulled away with a hiss. _Why_ was a good question, Will thought. Why couldn’t he keep himself from hurting in Hannibal’s presence? Why couldn’t he keep himself sane?

Damn his father for isolating him. Damn himself for not maintaining his own isolation.

“It’s a story with many illogical facts and ill-devised turns. It would take much longer than a night to explain.” Hannibal smiled as he spoke, but Will could see—perhaps for the first time—past the smile. Something much darker lurked beyond the elegant exterior. It terrified him.

It excited him.

Before he could think better of it, Will said, “Tell me.”

“Some things should be left for another time,” Hannibal said with that same half-smile, mysterious and dangerous.

There they were again, those migrating butterflies in Will’s chest, looking for a mountain they would not find inside him. His breath caught in his throat, and finally he managed to say, “There might not be another time, Dr. Lecter.” His voice did not shake as much as he imagined it did, and he willed the butterflies away as he clenched his fists at his side, nails digging into his palms and his fresh wound stinging.

“There will be, if you want one.”

Will didn’t respond; he didn’t know how to. A hundred different options paralyzed his lips, and he stared blankly at Hannibal before blinking and looking away, back to the chicory on the stove. If he wanted one, he thought with a dark frown. Who would want such a thing?

Hannibal cleared his throat then and said, “Do you mind, Will, if I borrow your boat? The bayou is so beautiful, and I’ve rather missed it.”

Snapping out of his own mind, Will said, “Have you ever rowed a boat before? Do you need me to come with you?”

Being on the pirogue with Hannibal alone again was not something Will wanted. Not another time. It had been too much before. It would be too much again. But at the same time, he could not quite find it within him to deny the foreigner the chance to take in the mystical nature of the bayou, which Will loved more than anything.

Thankfully Hannibal made the decision for him. “That won’t be necessary. There is a small lake on my estate, and it is where I escape my servants. I am well practiced.”

Will only barely faltered at the reference to servants. Of course Dr. Hannibal Lecter, owner of a family estate with a lake and a glossy black automobile, would have servants. Nodding, Will said, “Holler if you need help.”

Hannibal agreed and then, like a figment of Will’s imagination, disappeared out the cabin door, just as the scent of roasting chicory filled the air. There was a string of happy barks from outside, and Will closed his eyes and let out a low, deep breath. His finger burned still, although perhaps not from the cut.

Hannibal had been gone close to fifteen minutes before Will opened his eyes and moved from where he stood in front of the stove. He didn’t move far, only to the table where the ingredients and his pack sat. And where the knife laid, innocent and waiting. Will ignored it, trying to force from his imagination the fantasy of Hannibal’s lips wrapped around his knuckle.

Rooting through the pack, Will shook his head, frustrated at himself. He couldn’t blame anyone but himself. He had let the foreigner into the bayou, into the cabin, into his life. Not once, but twice. Once was a mistake. Twice had to be pure foolishness. If it happened a third time—and as much as Will wished it wouldn’t, he knew, somehow, it would: madness. Maybe more than that, and so much he didn’t know what to call it. He tried not to think that far ahead.

Finally he found within the pack the pocket watch that had plagued him. He turned it over in his palm, running his fingers slowly over the carved surface of the cover, where the silver butterfly stretched its wings in eternal flight. The butterflies came through the bayou every fall, but they never stayed. Except this one.

Will wanted rid of it. Wanted the butterfly to follow the rest. Wanted this drop not to stray from the gallon.

Or, if nothing else, not to remind him of his father, who still seemed to lurk in the dark corners of the cabin as Will tried to sleep at night. Or rocked the pirogue in the stillest waters as Will tried to catch a meal or a piece of normality. Or whistled a tune in the wind as Will tried to forget it. His father was everywhere. His father _was_ the bayou, just as Will had intended when setting his corpse to its murky grave. He certainly didn’t need a damned pocket watch—one that his father had all but never used—to tell him how long it had been or remind him once again that the only person Will ever truly knew was gone.

He had intended to sell it, but as he turned it over in his hands now, the thought sat wrong with him.

That left only two other options, as far as Will could see. The first, and perhaps the most reasonable, was to drop the watch into the bayou the next time he went out on the water. The second, to give it as a token of appreciation to Hannibal, who had helped Will give his father the funeral he deserved. Both were poetic in their own way, Will supposed. And yet, neither seemed to write itself. Will would have to do that.

If only he could find the conviction to do so.

It was an hour later when Hannibal finally returned with a light sheen of sweat on his forehead, where a loose strand of hair had come free to fall in the foreigner’s face. Will stood over the stove with his back to the door, glancing over his shoulder and clenching his jaw at what he saw. Hannibal smiled, and it was only then that Will noticed the wrapped parcel under the man’s arm.

“Catfish must get dull after a while,” Hannibal said as he strode forward and set the parcel on the table before unwrapping it. A red, plump cut of meat emerged from the paper, and, somewhat sheepishly, Hannibal added, “I made a stop after my journey out onto the water. It seems I was too preoccupied earlier to remember what I brought for dinner.”

Will had never heard some of the words Hannibal used, but he knew what the foreigner meant. A flush rose to his cheeks, and he turned away to prod at the chicory again. It was nearly done now, and once it was, Will would have nothing left to do except watch Hannibal cook.

He listened rather than watched as Hannibal moved about the cabin, preparing ingredients and becoming too familiar with Will’s home. A soft humming broke the quiet of the cabin that Will knew so well, and he tensed up as he recognized the song as the one that he himself had been humming on the bayou a week ago, when Hannibal had touched him, when Will had broken down in a stranger’s arms. The memory was vivid and humid and so close Will thought he could reach out and touch it, even though he didn’t want to.

The humming stopped only when Hannibal asked, “The cabin on the other shore, who lives there?”

“No one,” Will said. “It was an old hunting cabin. It’s been abandoned as long as I can remember. But there are lots of edible plants there. I go often.” He took the chicory off the stove then, satisfied that it was well roasted and ready to be ground into a fine powder to brew into that dark, syrupy coffee that Will had become quite fond of in the past week. It was much sweeter, much deeper, than any of the chicory coffee his father had ever prepared from a can.

As Will moved away from the stove, Hannibal took his place, setting the meat, which he had wrapped in waxy magnolia leaves, near the fire. “Are you a hunter, Will?” Hannibal asked, his voice filling the cabin.

Will shook his head, saying, “Only a fisher. My father couldn’t afford a gun.”

A noise that almost sounded like a laugh came from where Hannibal stood, but it was stifled at first and then masked by the sound of a pan shuffling against the iron stove.

Gritting his teeth, Will said, “Not all of us can have an estate with a lake and servants. Or an automobile half a world away. Or even afford to buy a chicory root once a week.” He paused to stare at the edge of the rocking chair that was visible through the cabin’s window. “I imagine you have a hundred guns in Lithuania.”

“One for each room in the castle,” Hannibal said with a smile and a wink that Will saw only out of the corner of his eye. He wished he hadn’t.

“Now it’s a castle?”

Hannibal laughed properly then, and Will bit his lip hard. It was becoming harder and harder not to stare at the foreigner. Stare at the way his body moved, graceful and strong, under his expensive clothes. Stare at the slightest twitches of his lips, or at the creasing of wrinkles beside his eyes. “Oh, yes, a proper castle. Gothic in every way, as if taken from a novel. Except, of course, it actually exists.”

“I’d like to see it,” Will said, almost wistful. He could feel a soft smile tugging at his lips despite everything, and for once, he indulged it.

“Perhaps someday you will.”

The smile fell, and reality caught him by the mouth like a sharp hook. “That would require a trip to Lithuania, Dr. Lecter. I was imagining something closer to a photograph.”

“Call me Hannibal.” Will turned to look at the foreigner then, just as the foreigner turned to look at him, and in that first moment that their eyes met, a sharp hunger yanked at Will’s stomach. He was struck with how handsome Hannibal was in the dim light of the cabin, and how bright those alligator eyes were. His stomach grumbled; he hadn’t eaten all day, and the warm magnolia leaves and roasted chicory and cooking meat blended into an irresistible smell that Will wanted to commit to memory.

Hannibal stepped forward then—so close to Will that the man’s dark scent joined the mix—and pulled from his breast pocket a small, creased envelope. Will watched as the foreigner turned the envelope over in elegant hands, and then opened it very carefully, as if the paper might fall apart. A photograph emerged, alongside a folded note. When Hannibal offered the photo to Will, their fingers brushing just slightly, Will found himself taking it without a thought.

It was indeed a castle in the background of the photograph, set into the hills of a country far away. In the foreground, an old man and a teenaged boy. The man wore a hat, the brim so low it hid his eyes but not his stern scowl, and he leaned on a walking cane with a handle carved into what Will thought might have been a fox’s head. The boy was tall and thin and stared intensely at the camera, and Will recognized the alligator eyes. He looked up at Hannibal and, for the first time, felt a familiarity at what he saw. The boy from the photograph was there no longer, but somehow, knowing that even Hannibal had once been a child calmed Will’s racing heart, just slightly. Just enough to let the desire that had been hiding in his gut overcome the anxiety.

Swallowing heavily, Will murmured, “You must miss it.”

“Sometimes we must let go of the places and the people we love in order to survive.”

Although they worked in silence, the cabin was far from quiet. As the afternoon fell into evening, the crickets began to sing, and the frogs to croak, and somewhere in it all, Will found a rhythm to the noise. Beating of insect wings, a far off owl waking up too early, the muted barks of a happy mutt. The shuffling in the cabin—as Will brewed the chicory coffee and Hannibal prepared the food—blended into the music seamlessly, and Will found himself smiling to himself. Soon, a small but sumptuous meal was set out on the cabin’s central table. A kerosene lamp made the centerpiece, and Will sat across from Hannibal, each in a mismatched chair. As Hannibal carved the meat, with the same knife that had cut Will not long ago, Will poured two cups of steaming coffee.

His father had not been a religious man, but would have said a short grace over a meal as fine as this. Will had never learned the prayer—rarely was it worth saying in the bayou—so instead he said, with an ease to his voice that he neither intended nor expected, “Thank you for the meal, Hannibal.”

Smiling, Hannibal picked up his battered cutler and served the meat in thin slices to both plates. “It is entirely my pleasure, to have a friend for dinner. I do hope you enjoy it.”

Will kept his head down, but stared up at Hannibal through his eyelashes, waiting for the foreigner to take the first bite. Although Will knew very little about manners, he knew more than enough about survival. Hannibal raised a small cut of meat to his lips slowly, bit it off the old fork, and chewed slowly, sensually, as he met Will’s eyes. Will felt too warm as he allowed his gaze to linger a moment longer before glancing away and beginning to eat his own portion.

Perhaps unsurprisingly, it was the most delicious thing he had ever tasted. His mouth watered as he chewed the tender, juicy meat, and for a moment he couldn’t imagine ever eating catfish again. He swallowed and took a sip of his hot chicory coffee, trying not to stare at the foreigner across from him, who appeared perfectly happy to stare at Will regardless.

“Bedelia seemed to believe that no one lived in the bayou,” Hannibal mused as he mirrored Will, drinking from his cup, and then turning to the vegetables that he had prepared. When Will said nothing at first, Hannibal added, “Is it just you, then?”

Was it? Will had never known. His father had never spoken of any others, but perhaps it was foolish to think none existed. Certainly some came to the bayou to fish and then into the city to sell their catch, much like his father had, and like Will himself would have to, if he ever intended to buy something with his own money. But if they lived in the bayou? Will wasn’t sure.

“I’ve never met another,” he said. “The far cabin, as far as I know, was only ever a hunting cabin. A bed for a night or two, but not a home.”

Will watched as Hannibal ate, despite the constant reminder to himself not to look to close, lest he see something he’d rather not have. But still he couldn’t quite ignore the way Hannibal held his cutlery: elegant and practiced and different than Will did. One long finger pressed down the spine of the knife, and a similar hold on the fork, with the tines held downward, moving together with the knife like dancers. Will used fists, fighters.

“It is hard to imagine anyone who lives within fifteen miles who does not know about the Axeman,” Hannibal mused with a casual air that raised the hairs at Will’s nape.

Swallowing down a bite of meat and looking away from Hannibal’s hands, Will said, “I didn’t, until last week. I wish I still didn’t.”

There was a moment in which Hannibal seemed to search Will, using only his eyes, and Will felt as if he was on display. He pressed his shoulders back, he nearly preening under the attention, but he would not raise his eyes to meet it for more than a fleeting glance or two.

“It scares you? Even when you live out this far?”

Of course it scared him. With a sharp huff that might have sounded something like a laugh, Will said as much before adding, “It’s not often that we, the humans, are hunted. Anyone would be scared to hear of women being picked off in the night. Soon it won’t just be women anymore.”

“What is it you hunt here, then?”

Shrugging, Will said, “Catfish, usually. Beaver and opossum. If you have a gun, hogs and stags and turkeys.” He paused, took a sip of chicory coffee, and, with a barely visible smile, added, “Sometimes alligators.” It was then that he met Hannibal’s eyes, and the smile morphed into a playful smirk.

It perhaps was not truly flirting, for that was something that Will had never witnessed, and he had no exact word for it. And beyond that, Will thought, he had never admitted to Hannibal the nickname he had for the foreigner. But despite the subtlety of it, Hannibal smiled, leaning forward, and cocked his head to the side as he said, “How does one hunt an alligator, Will?”

Part of Will wanted to back down—begged for it, for a return to normality. The other part, smaller but faster to his lips, was intrigued and hardly about to let go.

“With patience and luck and some bait.” Raising an eyebrow, Will sat back, holding his coffee cup and watching how Hannibal’s eyes danced with amusement. Dark and dangerous, still, but less frightening now. Like an alligator on a hook.

Will moved quickly, before he thought better of it, and pulled out the pocket watch that he had slipped back into his pack. Holding it out over the table in offering, Will said, “Take it. As thanks for the chicory and the meals. And let Bedelia, whoever she is to you, know that even I can repay my debts.”

It was a moment of consideration, long enough that Will began to worry that he had made the wrong decision after all, before Hannibal reached out to take the pocket watch. Their fingers brushed as the foreigner took the token, or the bait, and studied it. The butterfly, caught in flight, glinted silver in the light of the kerosene lamp, and the butterflies in Will’s chest hung suspended in flight too, until Hannibal spoke.

“She is a colleague, arguably a friend, but nothing more.”

A confused frown flickered across Will’s face as he parsed the answer to a question he hadn’t realized he had asked. A flush rose to his face, and he laughed awkwardly, glancing around the cabin for anything to distract him. With as well as he knew the cabin—for twenty-five years he had known nowhere else—there was nothing. “Right,” he said after a moment, “I didn’t mean to imply anything else. It’s just that, when I first met you—”

It was a strangely vivid memory, even for being only a week ago. Just before Bedelia had emerged, wearing a yellow dress, from the red doors behind the counter in her shop, Will had heard soft music. And then Hannibal had followed her out of what Will imagined to be a back room office or lounge. He had looked like her partner, in one way or another. They looked good together. As if they belonged together. Where she was blonde, he had darker hair, somewhere between brown and gray; where her dress was bright and flowing, his suit was muted and fitted; where she seemed stern, he seemed amused. But for all the ways they contrasted, one singular aspect tied them together: an innate sense of danger. Will had recognized it first in Hannibal, but then, reflecting on the moment earlier with Alana, Bedelia, too, had an edge about her.

Hannibal seemed to be waiting for Will to finish his thought, but it never came.

“Bedelia offered me support when I was forced to leave Lithuania. She and I both deal in medicine, and I have known her for the better part of twenty years,” Hannibal explained, still holding the pocket watch in his open palm.

Will’s mind caught on only one aspect of this new information about the foreigner. “How old are you?” he asked suddenly, brow knitted.

With a laugh, Hannibal said, “Old enough to be the last remaining Lecter.”

Embarrassed again by his boldness, Will hid in his cup of chicory coffee, finishing it in one last gulp. This was new territory for him, and one with much more difficult terrain than the bayou. Standing to pour himself another cup, Will said, “You can sell the watch. I’m not sure how much it would be worth, but surely more than two chicory roots and hopefully your time.”

“Nonsense,” Hannibal said, slipping the watch into his pocket and standing to follow closely behind Will. Just before Will picked up the battered pot of chicory coffee, a large hand wrapped around his bicep. He startled, dropping the cup to where it clattered on the wooden floor. Breathing heavily, Will turned around to find Hannibal impossibly close. They were chest to chest, touching as they breathed, with Hannibal looming over him, and Will felt at the same time trapped and protected, like a catfish in its nook.

Swallowing, Will could think of nothing else to say but to murmur, “Hannibal.”

The flush still burned on his cheeks, as did the chicory coffee and butterflies in his stomach, and the sound of the fallen cup rang in Will’s ears, but he couldn’t bring himself to look away from the foreigner’s alligator eyes. Couldn’t feel anything but the hand still at his arm, gentler now, couldn’t smell anything but the man’s earthy, spiced scent. In that moment, Will understood why even Winston was drawn to Hannibal.

“Thank you for the pocket watch, Will,” Hannibal said, his voice hushed but confident. He didn’t smile, but his eyes were intense and warm and smiled enough on their own. “As for selling it, I will do no such thing. It is far more precious than chicory or time.”

It was either luck or coincidence that Will didn’t know what to say, because before he could so much as open his mouth, Hannibal’s lips were on his. Hot and firm and dangerous.

A million thoughts crossed Will’s mind like migrating monarchs, but none stayed, and out of instinct or pleasure, his eyes fluttered closed and he leaned into the foreigner’s broad, strong frame. That Will had never kissed anyone before, and had all but never considered kissing itself, didn’t matter. This, too, was instinct.

Will wasn’t sure how long the kiss lasted before his senses finally came to him and he pulled away, wide-eyed and overwhelmed in every way. “What about saving some things for another time?” he asked, breathless. His entire body burned and shook, and his conscious mind was terribly confused: torn between one instinct and another. Pleasure on one side, as if held in the fist of his left hand, and preservation on the other, held tightly in the right. The rest of him stretched suspended between the two.

Panic again began to rise inside him, boiling up from his core and tasting like vomit in the back of his throat. His vision began to tunnel on Hannibal’s face, on those same dangerous eyes that twinkled brightly, and those same upturned, blood-red lips that had just kissed him.

“I’m hardly inclined to take the chance that you might never want to see me again, Will,” Hannibal said slowly, carefully, as if plucking the words off the vine as he spoke.

Where Will had moments of boldness before, now he had a moment of fear, and that second instinct, in the right hand, came alive.

Will pushed past Hannibal and ran, past the table where their dinner sat, through the cabin door, down the bloodied steps, and across the bayou ground until he came to his pirogue, tied just a few feet from where he had left it. He unmoored the boat with shaking hands and stepped into its flat bottom fast enough that it rocked in the still water, and he rowed himself out into deeper water as fast as he could. Anything to get away from the foreigner in his cabin, in his bayou, in his life. The one who could not take the chance of Will never wanting to see him again.

Who kissed Will and made his mind twist in on itself.

Fast, shallow breaths relaxed the further out onto the water he got, as he calmed himself and attempted to rationalize everything that had happened to him since his father died.

Close to where they had buried his father, Will let the pirogue come to a gentle rest amid the dripping moss and duckweed. The sun had settled beyond the horizon, and once again twilight rested heavy in the fog. The usual frog and cricket and owl songs comforted Will as he wrapped his arms around himself, and soon he began to hum along, blending into the symphony or the cacophony.

He wasn’t sure what he was feeling. Shock, certainly, and more than a little desire. Shame for that desire. After all, he was meant to be independent. That was how his father had raised him. That was who Will Graham was supposed to be. Independent. So this strange new impulse for closeness, and closeness with a foreigner, of all people, was wrong in every way isolation was right. But, for all that he logically knew, he could not help repeating the memory of Hannibal leaning down to kiss him over and over in his head. Let alone the infinite moment in which their lips had touched. In his memory, Will thought he could almost feel Hannibal’s heartbeat through the kiss. Perhaps he was imagining things, falling into a dangerous fantasy, but it seemed to speed up to match Will’s own.

It would never happen again, Will knew. He wouldn’t allow it, for no amount of wanting was worth the life he knew and loved. And yet the thought wouldn’t leave him alone, even as he tried to focus on other things, like the dangling cypress branches and humming along with the chorus of nature.

A few minutes later, a strange burbling broke through the harmony, and when Will glanced across the surface of the water, his heart skipped a beat.

The pale, lifeless skin of a floating hand contrasted the dark murk, and with another gurgle, a head and torso joined it.

Will rowed the boat closer, thinking that the rocks he had tied in his father’s shroud had come loose, letting the corpse float to the surface. But he would have imagined that, in a week’s time, the body of his father would have become waterlogged and destined to rest at the bottom of the bayou, as Will had intended.

As he got closer, the corpse’s face bobbed above the surface of the water, with duckweed speckling high cheekbones and youthful lips painted red. The eyes, open and gray and clouded over, seemed to meet Will’s, and the panic returned, as did the taste of vomit at the back of his throat. This time he could not hold his stomach, and he bent over the side of the pirogue and vomited into the bayou, just missing Margot Verger’s corpse. Beneath the surface, a frenzy formed of fish and other creatures happy for a hot, meaty meal.

His breath caught in his throat again, and tears formed in his eyes. Almost afraid it might move, Will held watery eye contact with the corpse of the dead woman as he rowed the boat back toward the cabin.

Will tied the pirogue quickly, his hands still shaking as they had been when he had untied it not but ten minutes before. He ran to the cabin on stilts and up the steps and over the blood-sticky porch, and heaved himself, still breathless but now for a different reason, through the threshold. His wild eyes locked on Hannibal, who sat at the table, finishing his meal.

“Will?” Hannibal asked, glancing up and setting his utensils aside. “Is something the matter?”

Trying to catch his breath and failing, Will managed to stammer between panting gulps, “Margot…bayou…dead…Axeman…come.”

Hannibal stood slowly. His face was blank, and, for the first time, his eyes were, too. He folded a rag he had been using as a napkin and placed it over his plate and stepped around the table. For every step forward the foreigner took, Will took one step back, leading them out of the cabin again and back toward the pirogue.

They boarded the boat in silence, and Will sat as far away from the foreigner as he could, still reeling after the kiss that threatened to unravel all that Will knew about himself. As he pushed them away from the shallow shore between the blackened roots of two cypress trees, a deep dread filled his gut that, perhaps, he was going the wrong direction.

 

With the exception of the usual hum of crickets and frogs, it was a silent trip back to where Will had met Margot Verger, and in his efforts to ignore the man in the pirogue with him, he imagined what all the headlines might say. What Alana might say or cry as she discovered the truth. Then Will began to wonder who exactly Margot was to Alana. What she would be to Alana, now that she was dead and floating in the bayou haze.

Will spotted the corpse with ease. It was pale in the darkness, and acutely out of place. After all, Margot was not like his father.

He rowed the boat up close, took another look at the dead woman and barely suppressed the urge to vomit again. Glancing back to Hannibal, whose expression was unreadable in the twilight, Will swallowed back his anxiety and said, “What should we do?”

Again there was silence, for much longer than Will expected, and the panic began to return. Hannibal seemed to be observing the dead woman, as if the sight did not bother him, and when the foreigner finally met Will’s eyes, the dread that had whispered to him at the shore now screeched. Will shivered as every muscle in his body tensed up. He could not look away. He could not breathe.

Before him was a monster.

Elegant as always, and with a pleasant, handsome smile. But with sharp, dark, and dangerous alligator eyes, more intense than Will had ever seen before. It was immediately clear to him that Hannibal was every bit as deadly and powerful as he wanted to be.

“Ah, Will, I believe we have already done for Miss Verger everything that we can.”

Confusion crossed Will’s eyes in a fleeting second, and Hannibal’s smile broadened as he rolled up the sleeves of his white shirt and reached over the side of the pirogue, into the murky water. Will watched with horror as Hannibal pulled Margot’s body out of the bayou. Her thin white shift dress, transparent and milky, clung to her breasts and stomach and hips, but at its lower hem, where it stuck to one thigh, the other side was stained dark with blood. Her head dangled, limp and lifeless, to the side, and her hair was nothing but the matted remains of a lovely hairstyle. As Hannibal laid her gently across the bottom of the boat, it became clear that the corpse was missing a leg.

Hannibal reached out over Margot for Will’s hand, but Will jerked backward, rocking the pirogue in the still water, and only barely caught himself before he went over the edge.

With a scolding click of his tongue, Hannibal said, “Don’t be rude. It’s unbefitting.” He gestured with his outstretched fingers. “Now give me your hand.”

Reluctantly, and mostly because he now feared for his life, Will placed his palm in the foreigner’s, trying to ignore the pleasant thrill that still ran through him at the touch. With another smile, Hannibal guided Will’s hand to the hem of Margot’s blood-stained dress. The silk was cold and clammy to the touch, and the blood less sticky than Will was used to. With Hannibal’s help, Will lifted the hem to reveal where the leg had been removed. Although he hadn’t believed it likely, the clean edges of the amputation, surgical, removed all doubt that Margot’s sacrifice—Alana’s sacrifice—could have been for an alligator to have his dinner.

Once again Will bit back the urge to vomit as he whispered, “What happened?”

Hannibal stroked a thumb across the back of Will’s hand and said, “Look at how beautiful she is, Will. Preserved in her beauty, and never known to grow old, by husband or by lover.” That was all Will needed to complete the fantasy between Margot and Alana. Hannibal chuckled as Will’s eyes blew wide. Taking Will’s hand in both of his own now, Hannibal continued: “And she has served her purpose beautifully, as well, hasn’t she?”

“I don’t know what you mean.”

“Tender, lean muscle is the best for roasting. Well-developed, young meat has a most succulent and flavorful character,” Hannibal explained, his fingertips pressing now against the soft spot of Will’s wrist, where his quickening pulse was most pronounced. “Didn’t she taste as beautiful as she looks?”

An alligator had gotten his dinner, after all.

As the meaning settled over him, perhaps a moment delayed, instinct came to life, and Will yanked his hand away, tripping backwards and flailing around, looking for purchase. His mind was blank except for the unmistakable command to run. Fight or flight, his father had taught him. He wanted—needed—to fly. The butterflies were nowhere to be found, resting for the night high in the canopy of the trees, close to the fresh air, where here, deep in the bayou, there was none. Will choked on his own breaths, on his own screams, and adrenaline told him that anywhere was better than in the pirogue with a murderer. A cannibal.

Anywhere was better than in a boat, trapped in the middle of the bayou, with Dr. Hannibal Lecter.

His father was so close, Will realized. If only he could get over the edge of the pirogue, he could join his father, and all of this horror and desire would fade away like the humid air, and he, too, could stay forever where he belonged in the bayou.

He struggled with his fear-jellied limbs to crawl up to the edge of the boat, and his entire body fought against him. It was only once he had one hand grazing the duckweed that strong, warm arms wrapped around his upper body. Will fought harder. He would die tonight, that much was a fact. But he begged anything that would listen that it would be the bayou and not a foreigner to take him. He screamed until his voice went hoarse, but of course there was no one but the frogs and crickets and owls to hear him. And Hannibal.

In the distance, Will could hear a string of distressed barks, and that much comforted him in what he had realized would be his last minutes. Perhaps there was enough of Margot Verger left for Winston to eat happily before he died, too.

Will struggled against Hannibal’s firm grasp, thrashing in any direction he could. Water splashed up the sides of the rocking pirogue, collecting in the bottom of the boat around Margot’s corpse. With one wild leg, Will managed to clip what he thought was the foreigner’s shin. A pained huff warmed the shell of his ear, and Will threw his head back, slamming it hard into Hannibal’s nose and mouth. With what sounded like a growl, Hannibal turned Will over and pinned him down on the floor. Will could feel Margot’s soft body give beneath their combined weight, and he let out a feeble whine as he realized that his face was now only inches from the dead woman’s.

Hannibal loomed over him, looking disheveled and more handsome than he should have. Blood dripped from his nose and onto the front of his white shirt, which pulled over straining muscles. Keeping Will bound—which was perhaps unnecessary now, as Will had all but given up his fight—Hannibal bent down to press his lips against the hinge of Will’s jaw before whispering, voice husky and too calm, “Do not make yourself a hunter’s prey, Will.” Hearing his name in that accent, stronger now than before, sent a shiver down Will’s body, and his ragged breaths filled the silence before Hannibal said, nearly teasing, “Alligators see movement, do they not?”

Somehow Will felt safe then, pinned beneath the foreigner’s muscle. It was illogical, perhaps pathological, but he could not deny it. His breathing, still shallow and heaving, regained a steady rhythm, and all his muscles relaxed, exhausted by their short but fierce struggle. He let his head fall back into the left crook of Margot’s neck, and rested his cheek on hers as his breathing finally returned to normal. The foreigner also relaxed, sitting up again before loosening his grip on Will.

“Before we return,” Hannibal said after a moment, “I will need you to make me a promise. Will you do that for me, Will?”

Quietly, and with his voice cracking, Will said, “Yes.”

One of Hannibal’s hands came to rest on Will’s cheek. On the right side, the cool, clammy touch of preservation; on the left, the warm, strong stroke of pleasure.

“Promise me that you will never speak of tonight. Can you do that?”

“Yes.”

The thumb on Will’s cheek made wide sweeping arcs just beneath his eye, and it was only then that Will noticed the silent tears falling from his lower lashes. They were hot, but faded into the warmth of the flush across his face.

“Can I trust you, Will?”

It was impossible, Will thought, how gentle Hannibal sounded in that moment, when only moments before he had restrained Will’s panicked thrashing with ease, or revealed his responsibility for a dead woman and a delicious meal. Will again wanted to vomit, but there was nothing left in his stomach to come up.

The hand moved to cup his jaw and guide Will to look up at the foreigner, who smiled down at him with a moonlight halo around his head. The blood from his nose was starting to dry, and his alligator eyes pierced through Will’s very existence, and Will felt then like Hannibal could see everything. Hannibal repeated the question.

When Will finally responded, his voice did not shake as much as it should have.

“Yes, Hannibal. You can trust me.”

Satisfied, Hannibal wrapped his arms around Will and hauled him up with an eternal finesse, helping him to sit on one of the pirogue’s wood slat benches. While Will tried to collect himself, running his hands over his entire body to look for injuries he couldn’t feel for the adrenaline, Hannibal picked Margot’s corpse up and unceremoniously dropped her back into the inky black water of the bayou. Within moments, the duckweed and moss returned to its usual place, hiding her point of reentry forever.

Taking up the oar, Hannibal rowed them back toward the shore and moored the boat before helping Will back onto muddy land and guiding him, with one hand at the small of Will’s back, up the steps of the cabin and in the door, to where a happy Winston had carried off the rest of Margot’s thigh to his thin red rug in the corner.

Will sat on the edge of his bed, arms wrapped around his legs and chin resting on one knee, as he watched Hannibal move around the cabin with his usual grace. The foreigner had insisted on cleaning up after their meal to let Will rest. The thin white crocheted blanket draped over Will’s shoulders, where Hannibal had laid it, and a happy, full dog sat next to him, chewing at the tasseled ends of the blanket. The same blanket that had covered the corpse of his father. Absentmindedly, Will stroked Winston’s head.

The cup he had dropped earlier still rested on the wooden floor of the cabin, rocking on its side as Hannibal walked across the creaking floorboards. Will wished he could go back to that moment, before he knew the true monster who had stood so close to him. It would be easier that way.

Once the table was cleared, and the plates were washed in a small basin of water that Will kept in the corner for such things, he thought Hannibal might finally leave. But the foreigner didn’t collect his things. Rather, he returned to the pot of chicory coffee on the stove and gave it a swirl before filling his own cup once again and taking an appraising sip. Hannibal crossed the cabin to sit beside Will on his bed, too close for comfort, and wrapped his arm around Will’s lower back. Despite knowing everything he now knew, Will couldn’t deny the tender sense of security that came with the too-familiar embrace. He leaned into the warmth.

As Hannibal drank his chicory coffee, he hummed quietly, and Will felt it more than he heard it.

“Will you ever go back to Lithuania?” Will asked after several long minutes of perfect if not peaceful silence.

The sigh that came from Hannibal’s lips sounded foreign to Will, more than anything else Hannibal had ever said. Somber and stoic came the reply: “We must always return to where we come from, Will. In one way or another.”

Letting his eyes flutter closed, Will could almost see his childhood before him. A humid, intimately primitive bayou. A distant but caring father gutting catfish on the porch of a cabin on tall stilts. A crude construction of smooth pebbles that approximated the figure of a stag, with damp twigs creating a monarch’s rack. A subdued but constant hunger. A vernal emphasis on rebirth and renewal and, indeed, returns.

“Like the butterflies,” Will murmured as a cluster of childhood, springtime monarchs flew northward through the bayou.

There was a quiet rattle as Hannibal set an empty cup on the floor and, with his free hand, reached over to lift Will’s chin from his knee with the knuckle of a curled finger. As if all of the barriers between them had fallen—even though that certainly was not the case—Will did not hesitate to open his eyes and look up to meet Hannibal’s fond gaze. Did not hesitate as Hannibal leaned in for the second time that night to press their lips together. Did not hesitate to unfurl himself and press into the kiss. Did not hesitate as the shame and disgust at himself filled him—first in drops, and then in gallons. He was kissing a monster. An alligator in every sense. Or allowing himself to be kissed by one. But that wasn’t all, wasn’t the source of the guilt. No, he _wanted_ to kiss Hannibal.

That was worse than anything else.

Wanted to tilt his head up as he did now. Wanted to feel thin, bloodied lips against his own as he did now. Wanted to hear the breaths from Hannibal’s nose as he did now. Wanted to press into the touch of a strong man’s palm at his jaw as he did now. Wanted to dare to press the tip of his tongue forward as he did now. Wanted to taste Hannibal and everything the foreigner had tasted, from roasted chicory to Margot Verger.

Thrill and pleasure and shame twisted inside Will, and when Hannibal drew back, he could not help but feel a pang of disappointment tug in his stomach.

“Oh, yes,” Hannibal said between them, a sort of wistful fatigue coloring his accent, “like the butterflies.”

The hand at Will’s jaw fell away, and the skin there suddenly felt cold in the humid cabin. Will watched with a furrowed brow as the foreigner, who was becoming more familiar with every passing moment, stood, gave Winston one last pat on the head, and then left through the cabin door.

The realization that Will didn’t want Hannibal to go was one that caught heavy in his throat. Because Hannibal was taking with him something of Will. Some piece of innocence or life. To watch him leave felt like mourning.

Will sang to himself, voice quiet and shaking.

“Oh, lord, I want to be in that number, when the saints go marching in.”


	3. A Rebirth

_SEPTEMBER 23, 1919—WIFE OF INFLUENTIAL POLITICIAN STILL MISSING_

Under the headline was the wedding photo that Alana carried, except now the husband, wearing a pristine tuxedo, was there and smiling. Will tossed the newspaper across the back counter in Dr. Du Maurier’s Medicines, glancing around the shop for someone who might, somehow, impossibly, know. The only person there was Bedelia, who looked up from her organizing to raise an eyebrow at the rustling of the paper.

“Alana didn’t provide the photo, I imagine,” Bedelia mused as she straightened bottles of tinctures on a lower shelf. Her blonde hair was tied up in a simple roll at the nape of her neck, and the hem of her magnolia green dress collected on the floor where she knelt. Will shook his head. No, he didn’t imagine Alana had. But now, he could understand why she had torn the man out of the photo in the first place.

It was early enough that the late summer heat had yet to seep into the shop, so the electric fan hanging from the ceiling was off, and the only sound besides the clinking of glass vials as Bedelia moved them was the soft music coming from the room behind the big red doors, which Will had learned was an office of sorts. A lounge at times. It was done in deep red wallpaper, with green leather chairs and electric lamps, and on one side table in the corner was a large phonograph. Bedelia had asked Will to put on a cylinder, and Will hadn’t the slightest idea what she meant. With a crooked grin, she had explained the technology to him.

“If only it ran on kerosene,” Will had said wistfully.

“Will, come here,” Bedelia said from where she knelt now, holding half a dozen amber vials in one hand as she dusted the shelf from which she had taken them. Pushing himself away from the counter, Will did as he was told. Bedelia handed the vials to him, and Will tried to read the small handwriting on the labels. Something about chaparral and barberry. To be diluted in coffee or tea. _Dr. Du Maurier’s Glowing Skin Oil._

Standing and brushing down her skirt, Bedelia turned to Will and said, “Do me a favor, won’t you, and just make these shelves look nice. All the vials of the same product should be grouped together, and if you check the dates on the bottom of the vial, the oldest ones should be at the front.”

Will nodded and went to his knees where Bedelia had been moments before. Turning the vials over in his hands, Will began to refill the shelf.

“What does all of this do?” Will asked after he had moved on to the next shelf.

Bedelia, who had returned to work behind the counter, sorting papers into several piles, looked over to the small sachets that Will was holding and said, “That’s for a stomachache.”

“So it’s all medicine?”

There was a pause, and Will looked over his shoulder, only to see Bedelia frowning between two pieces of paper. Finally she said, somewhat distracted, “In a way, yes. Herbal medicines, using ingredients and recipes from across the globe. That’s chamomile from the Loire Valley in France, and comfrey from Russia. A pinch of ginger powder from China.”

The whole world contained in a tiny linen pouch in his hand, Will thought with some trepidation but also with reverence.

“Are there any ingredients from Lithuania?”

Bedelia froze from her shuffling of papers and looked up at Will properly. “Yes, of course,” she said, gesturing to a small display on the front wall under a large window, with a handwritten sign for _Trejos Devynerios_ between the bottles. “That’s how I met Hannibal, after all.” She seemed to sense Will’s curiosity and explained, “Much of my time is spent traveling the world to collect ingredients. When I arrived in Lithuania, I was pointed in the direction of Castle Lecter, for there they have a cellar filled with this potion that cures all ills. I first thought it was only wine.” She laughed, tucking a stray hair behind her ear. “I arrived unannounced, and Hannibal opened the door. He was gracious enough to sell me all but ten bottles at a discount.”

Will studied the display but didn’t dare to stand and approach it; he hadn’t finished sorting the sachets.

An hour or so passed quietly, until the heat arrived and Bedelia switched on the fan, which overwhelmed the music from the office. Will had worked his way through half of the store, and in that time, only one customer had come in to purchase a bottle of Dr. Du Maurier’s Miracle Oil.

When he couldn’t hold his curiosity any longer, Will broke the silence and asked, “What’s his castle like?”

“Enormous,” Bedelia said simply before adding, “It sits on the ruins of a mountain and looms over the valley. All weathered stone and gothic arches. Inside is cold except for the rooms with fireplaces or ovens. It’s as old as the Lecter family, and just as distinguished.”

In his mind, Will was constructing an image of a castle he had never seen, except in an old and dark photograph that Hannibal had shown him. He could almost imagine stepping up to heavy wooden doors twice as tall as him, studded with blackened brass. Could almost imagine the doors opening to reveal a smiling Hannibal, fresh blood dripping from his fingertips. Will swallowed heavily.

“But that was before the war,” Bedelia added after a few minutes. “Before independence.”

Frowning, Will asked, “Independence?”

It was then, for better or worse, that the store’s door opened and Hannibal entered, carrying a bread basket in the crook of one arm. Bedelia, who had been about to speak, snapped her red-painted lips closed and shot Will a look that might have been a warning. Will took the suggestion.

“Bedelia, are you putting our dear Will to work?” Hannibal teased, setting the bread basket on the counter beside Bedelia’s stacks of paper. He turned his attention then to the newspaper that Will had discarded. “A shame,” he mused casually. Will’s jaw tensed, but he said nothing.

With a roll of her eyes, Bedelia said, “What is it the religious folk say about idle hands?”

Will didn’t know, but he stared down at his own hands, holding two small boxes of dried herbs, and tried not to see them covered in Margot Verger’s blood or enveloped by Hannibal’s larger, stronger hands. He shivered, and tried to attribute it to the breeze that the fan sent through the shop. And yet, he knew the truth, even if no one else did.

“Would you like me to take you home, Will?” Hannibal asked, still the pinnacle of nonchalance.

Shaking his head, Will said, “No, thank you.” And he forced himself to focus only on the vials and sachets and boxes and jars in front of him.

_SEPTEMBER 30, 1919—AXEMAN CLAIMS LIFE OF JAZZ MUSICIAN_

Above Dr. Du Maurier’s Medicines was the small but well furnished apartment where Bedelia lived. After returning to the city on a whim, Will found himself organizing shelves once again, and then, somehow, found himself staying for dinner with Bedelia and Hannibal, who had offered to cook.

Will sat at a dining table—one that matched all of its chairs—and flipped through the day’s newspaper he had bought from a young boy on the street outside the shop. Yet another article about the Axeman made the front page, this time with a photo of a dark-skinned man holding a trumpet to his chest and smiling brightly to the camera. Clarence Lavolier, the article said, had been found by his bandmates, dead and gutted behind the club where they were meant to perform. He was the first male victim of the Axeman, the article explained, and that meant the murderer was getting less picky. Will glanced up at Hannibal, who stood at the kitchen counter, slicing onions and carrots.

Carrying freshly dried linen napkins, Bedelia came in from the balcony and said, “Will, I was thinking. If you would like, I am happy to compensate you in chicory for your work in the shop.”

“That would be nice,” Will said, closing the newspaper and setting it aside.

“And unnecessary.” Hannibal didn’t look up from the vegetables as he scooped them up on the flat of his knife and carried them to a waiting pan on the stove. A sizzle and savory fragrance filled the apartment, and Will looked to Bedelia, whose lips had gone tense and almost sour.

“Hannibal,” she began before the foreigner interrupted her.

“If Will would like to work in your shop, that is perfectly respectable. But he should know that working is not required in order to have chicory. I stand by my promise to pay for anything he needs.” It was then that Hannibal looked up, first to Will, who quickly glanced away, and then to Bedelia, who harrumphed as she pressed the napkins under a hot iron and folded them into neat triangles.

Awkwardly, Will stood from the table, crossed the large main room to the kitchen and said, “Can I help?”

At the same time, Bedelia suggested he might set the table, while Hannibal told him to pour the wine. Biting his lip and trying to ignore the tension between the two—reminding himself what Hannibal had said about their relationship—Will decided to appease both. He found a set of china and silverware and carried them to the table, where he paused and tried to remember if he knew how to set a table. He didn’t. Instead of asking, Will just put three plates at the seats around the head of the table and left all the silverware in a pile in the center. He then went to find wine glasses and take the napkins from Bedelia. It was not a pretty table setting, but it would do.

Bedelia took pity on him with the bottle of wine, which she opened with a deft hand before handing it to Will to serve. He had never had wine before. Had barely even considered its existence.

“The offer still stands, Will,” Bedelia said as she turned to the phonograph on a table and set it with a cylinder of crackling jazz. Will wondered if it was a recording of the dead man, a sort of memorial. Somehow he doubted it. But what did he know of jazz, except for his funeral song?

After another fifteen minutes, Hannibal announced that the meal was nearly done, and Bedelia and Will took their seats at the table, across from one another, leaving the seat at the head of the table, at Will’s left and Bedelia’s right, for Hannibal. The foreigner carried a dish in each hand to the table, setting them in the center after Bedelia swept the silverware away and set the table more appropriately. One dish was a steaming medley of vegetables, dressed with butter and herbs from downstairs. The other was a whole catfish, battered and fried, which Will had brought in that afternoon from the bayou.

“Bon appetit,” Hannibal said as he took his seat and began serving the meal. Will reached for the glass of wine in front of him and took his first ever sip. He choked on the acidic burn of it. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see Hannibal’s smirk, and a warm flush rose to Will’s cheeks then.

For the first several bites, they all ate in silence. Naturally, the meal was delicious, and the catfish was prepared better than Will had ever had. It almost didn’t taste like catfish anymore.

Bedelia was the first to speak. “It’s wonderful, Hannibal. Don’t you think so, Will?”

To his left, Will saw Hannibal nod appreciatively and then look to Will for his response. Will did think so, but he froze under the eyes of his two companions, and struggled to swallow down another gulp of wine before agreeing. His skin felt almost like it was lifting off his body, and he wondered if that was the alcohol or the rising anxiety. He ate slowly, savoring Hannibal’s cooking, trying not to remember the last time Hannibal cooked for him.

“As I said, Will,” Hannibal said, pausing until Will looked at him, “you needn’t worry about chicory.” There was a soft smile at his lips, and those alligator eyes were fond, too.

Will felt flushed all over, felt like his pupils were blown wide, and felt like he needed another sip of the wine, which he took before saying, “You’ve given me enough, Dr. Lecter.” There was a hint of warning in his voice, nearly—but not quite—masked by a bold flirtation that surprised even Will himself. Another sip of wine, then another.

Hannibal laughed, and Bedelia glanced between the two of them with a curious arch of a brow, but she said nothing, to Will’s relief. He wasn’t sure how he’d respond if she did ask, especially with the wine sloshing in him. His glass was nearing empty, and Hannibal took a pause from his meal to refill all the glasses at the table. Will’s was fuller than the others. Until, that is, Will took another sip that more accurately verged on a gulp. Hannibal opened his mouth as if he were about to speak, but seemed to reconsider at the last moment.

“Do you like it?” Bedelia asked as she shot a daring look at Hannibal, who was close to filling Will’s glass again.

Nodding, Will found himself captivated by the small lines and wrinkles around Hannibal’s eyes, which were exaggerated as the foreigner smiled at him. As Will tried to memorize Hannibal’s face, he realized that parts of it had already lodged firmly in his memory. He had seen these same lines and wrinkles in Hannibal’s face the last time the foreigner had been in the bayou, as he loomed like a weathered stronghold castle over Will in the pirogue. Somehow Will imagined that expression—was there a name for it except, perhaps, power?—contributed even more to the wrinkles that he found so undeniably handsome. Distinguished.

Once again he wondered how old Hannibal was, and his loosened tongue was about to ask, but he was stopped only as Hannibal asked him an increasingly dangerous question.

“Shall I take you home, Will?”

It would have felt wonderful to say yes. In his swimming, happy head, Will saw them alone in his cabin, bodies entwined, all fears of the Axeman or the police pushed aside. In his swimming, happy head—he had never felt so relaxed before, and certainly not so in the city—saying yes was easy. But some part of his fear remained, even through the wine and lust. Biting his lip, Will glanced away to Bedelia, who looked on with a raised eyebrow as she ate a bite of fish.

“No, thank you, Hannibal. I should probably walk.” He took another sip of wine.

_OCTOBER 4, 1919—NEW ORLEANS TERRORIZED BY AXEMAN_

“An uncreative headline, if nothing else,” Hannibal said as he turned the page of the newspaper. He sat with legs crossed on the other side of a small cafe table from Will, who held a cup of coffee—real and pure coffee, now—close to his chest. A plate of sugar-dusted beignets sat at the center of the table, with Hannibal’s untouched coffee close beside.

Will sipped at his coffee, feeling awkward and wanting to ignore the headlines and the newsboy outside the door of the cafe who was shouting them over and over again. All while the Axeman himself sat in an immaculately tailored, deep rusty red suit—almost the color of dried blood—only a few hundred feet away. Part of Will wanted nothing more than to go outside and tell the boy to be quiet. Or have Hannibal buy all the newspapers, so the boy would have none left to sell and no more reason to shout. Of course he did neither.

He watched the boy harass passersby, all while Hannibal flipped through the newspaper with a soft rustling of its pages. One of the victims of the harassment, Will noticed with a spike in his pulse, was the police detective Jack Crawford, who still seemed to be preoccupied with telling newsboys not to scare locals.

“It does seems that many New Orleanians are increasingly afraid,” Hannibal commented. Will looked away from the dark-skinned detective outside and toward Hannibal, whose nonchalance was both infuriating and admirable. Hannibal glanced up from the newspaper to meet Will’s eyes only long enough to say, “The businesses must be suffering. Certainly Bedelia’s is, but for you.”

They were the only patrons in the cafe, and the only ones who had been for the past half hour they had been there. And it was for no apparent reason, as the coffee and pastries were delicious, the atmosphere bright and floral, and the owner as sweet as her beignets.

If only she knew her customer, Will thought with a wry smirk that he bit away out of something like shame.

“Don’t they have reason to be afraid? Indiscriminate killing in the dead of night, every gender and race and profession. It seems enough merely to exist to become a victim,” he said, setting his coffee cup in its matching saucer—something that didn’t exist in the bayou—and reaching for a pastry. After he swallowed the first bite, he said, “It’s like how most people are afraid of alligators. Would you say they should not be afraid?”

It was a challenge, but one tinged with a playful tease. Will was slowly becoming more comfortable with the teasing, more comfortable in his own skin without the veil of the bayou surrounding him, more comfortable, somehow, with the Axeman.

“Are you afraid, Will?”

Will smirked then, shifting in his seat such that his leg brushed against Hannibal’s, and with his coffee cup held in front of his face, countered with, “Should I be?”

Hannibal’s face was tense, but his eyes twinkled in amusement. He folded the newspaper and set it on a neighboring table, where it would not disturb any customers, and mirrored Will by drinking from his coffee cup. Once again Will forced himself to look away, out the window, only to find that the detective had disappeared. Good, he thought without hesitation.

The thought startled him, and he looked again at handsome, dignified Hannibal with his blood-red suit and styled hair and strong fingers wrapped around a delicate porcelain cup.

“I would be happy to take you home,” Hannibal said after a moment. He already knew the answer, but it had become a game of sorts to ask and be denied, so Will let the unspoken question linger in the air between them. He finished his beignet. Then finished his coffee. Reached for another beignet and tucked it into his pack to take back to the cabin for Winston.

He stood from the table, pushing the chair close to the table as he said, “That’s fine. I’ll walk.” The foreigner remained in his seat, and as Will left, he let his fingertips brush across the shoulder of Hannibal’s suit, just to feel the material under his skin.

The newsboy outside tried to sell him a paper by shouting the headlines again, and Will all said was, “Yes, I know.” As he headed back toward the bayou, he glanced over his shoulder to Hannibal, still in the window of the cafe, who met his gaze over the top of the open newspaper. Will felt his heart pounding against his ribs, and he knew then, as he continued home, that he wouldn’t be able to say no forever.

There was a reason—beyond madness—that some people hunted alligators, after all.

_OCTOBER 7, 1919—DETECTIVE CRAWFORD VOWS TO CATCH AXEMAN_

The last thunderstorm of summer was drowning New Orleans, and the electricity had gone out, so the ceiling fan in Dr. Du Maurier’s Medicines was still, as was the humid air. Again Will found himself kneeling at the shelves, this time setting out fresh tinctures of juniper and rosemary. Hannibal, leaning against the counter in the back of the store, read aloud from the day’s newspaper as Bedelia, standing on the stairs to tie new bundles of flowers to the ceiling to dry, interjected occasionally with her own commentary.

“He hasn’t done much yet, has he?” she asked with no small amount of disdain as she finished the knot on a length of twine holding up a small bundle of poppies. After brushing back her hair, she let her hands come to rest at her hips and she said, “That detective, he seems rather intelligent. But he’s not done much good in stopping the murders!”

A thunderclap shook the shelves, and Will sighed to himself as he straightened the small amber dropper vials again. He was hot and sweating, and the headline printed across the entire width of the day’s newspaper had rattled him. Bedelia had a point, of course, but Will knew how close to the Axeman Jack Crawford had gotten, and it was only a matter of time until the detective realized who he was looking at.

“According to the Tribune,” Hannibal said as he turned the page, “‘We believe it likely that the Axeman is a friend of the city, a man who is invited into homes without fear, someone who abuses the trust of his neighbors.’”

Snorting, Bedelia said, “Then how is it that the surviving victims can’t recall a face or name? Surely you know your neighbors well enough.”

Will stood and leaned against the end of a shelf, saying, “I suppose fear can alter your memory. Or impair it.”

“You’re starting to sound like Hannibal,” Bedelia teased as she set to tying up another bundle of red poppies. Will rolled his eyes and went to find in the office the next box of tinctures to be shelved. At the back corner of the office, hidden from view by a folding screen printed with oriental flowers and birds, was where Bedelia blended her unique cures. Will hadn’t dared to peek behind the screen yet.

The box was on a low table between four luxurious green leather armchairs, and as Will picked it up with a low groan—it was heavier than he expected—he could hear the pounding rain come in as the main door to the shop opened.

“Welcome to Dr. Du Maurier’s Medicines, can I help you with—” Bedelia paused, her introduction left to hang in midair. Will frowned as he carried the box of tinctures out of the office.

“Ah, Detective Crawford,” Hannibal said, a paragon of politeness, “indeed, can we help you with anything?”

Will froze where he stood, his pulse racing. He held the box close to his chest, willing himself not to drop it and shatter the vials and bring even more attention to himself. But he didn’t know if he could face Jack Crawford at the moment. Didn’t know if he could hold his tongue. Certainly, it wasn’t as if he wanted to expose Hannibal or himself, but Will, having not had a use for lying for his entire life so far, was not skilled at it.

“Alana,” Bedelia said, her voice so quiet that Will almost could not hear her from inside the office. Once again Will’s heart faltered. He couldn’t face Alana.

Emerging from another thunderclap were two sets of footsteps: one heavy and shuffling, the other nearly fading into the rhythm of the rain.

“I’m afraid she won’t speak.” It was a familiar voice, deep and belonging to the detective whose image filled the center of the newspaper’s front page. Will bit his lip and shifted his weight from one foot to the other. Jack Crawford continued: “She has taken a vow of silence, until either Margot Verger is found alive or her murderer is rotting in jail.”

It was then that Will sneezed. He cursed himself under his breath, knowing he could hide no longer. Taking a deep breath, he kept his head down and carried the box out of the office, trying to feign surprise as he saw the detective, in his usual uniform and carrying a large umbrella, and Alana, wearing a full-length frilled black dress and a black lace veil that covered her face. She carried a tidy but wet bouquet of fresh white orchids, their sweet scent overpowering the usual sultry warm perfume of the shop.

“Detective Crawford,” Will said in greeting, with a slight nod of the head.

The detective looked Will over and seemed to recognize him a moment later, reaching for his notepad and flipping through it until he said, “Graham, yes?” Will nodded again, stronger this time. Jack slipped the notepad back into his pocket and returned his attention to Bedelia, saying, “Alana did, however, indicate that this was the last place she spoke about Margot Verger. I’d like to ask if you could recount the details of that conversation for me.”

Will knelt between the shelves with his box and set to organizing again, as Bedelia tried to summarize the conversation from nearly a month ago. The detective must have been struggling to find any other leads to follow, Will thought. Although that didn’t make him feel any better about his own anxieties.

“And there was no mention of anyone else that Margot Verger was meant to see that night? No friend or lover?”

Bedelia laughed, and Will thought it might have been hiding an uncharacteristic awkwardness. “No, sir. Just Alana. Margot’s husband was out of town. Up to Baton Rouge, I think, for a Senate meeting.”

Will was busying himself with the tinctures when a shadow fell upon him from the detective standing beside him. As Will looked up at him, Jack asked, “You’ve been in town a lot recently.”

“My father died,” Will said, standing and leaving the box of tinctures on the ground.

“Murdered?”

Shaking his head, Will said, “Time.”

Jack seemed suspicious, and it reflected in his voice as he said, “Do you have a death certificate?”

Panic creeped into Will as he stood open-mouthed and considered running. But that certainly wouldn’t help anything. “No,” he said after a moment, “I didn’t know it was required.” He was being honest, and yet his voice shook and he couldn’t meet the detective’s eyes. Another thunderclap boomed through the shop, and Will jumped, his nerves frayed. His breaths quickened, and he could feel his skin crawling. Jack reached again for his notepad, and Will swallowed heavily.

A rustling of newspaper came from the counter as Hannibal set the headlines aside and walked in long, purposeful strides to Will and the detective.

“I can verify that his father passed peacefully, Detective Crawford.” Will sent Hannibal a desperate glance, and Hannibal continued: “I saw the body before the funeral. There was not a drop of blood or hint of injury. As a physician, I can assure you that Mr. Graham was simply an old man who lived a hard life in the bayou.”

The detective listened to Hannibal and, after a long moment in which Will was convinced that Jack had figured it all out, said, “Very well.” He turned to Will and removed his hat as he said, “My condolences about your father.”

Will said nothing, so Hannibal thanked the detective for him. As Jack replaced his hat and thanked everyone for their time, making for the exit, Will noticed Alana hovering like a ghost in the center of the shop, staring intently at Hannibal’s back. Her expression was twisted, somewhere between the grief that was evident in the rest of her appearance, and a sort of confusion, as if it was her and not the detective who was piecing something together. But what could Alana know? Will frowned as Jack left the shop and Alana stayed behind.

As Hannibal passed her, on his way back to the counter to retrieve his newspaper, Alana stopped him with a hand to each lapel. She pulled him into a tight hug, her face pressed into the crook of his neck. Hannibal wrapped his arms around the mourning woman, but stared straight ahead.

Very faintly, Will thought he heard Alana whisper something, but he couldn’t make it out under the din of the storm.

And then she was gone, stepping fearlessly into the rain to follow after the detective. Will thought maybe he was losing his mind. Maybe the anxiety was twisting his senses, and the fear his memory. Hannibal stood still where Alana had left him before rolling his shoulders and continuing toward the counter as if nothing had happened. Bedelia, still on the stairs, also frowned as she secured yet another bundle of poppies to the ceiling to dry.

“Will, you can leave that box where it is. Take a break,” she said about half an hour later, once all of the tinctures had been set onto the shelf. Will didn’t argue. Running a hand through his hair, he stood and excused himself to the office, where he collapsed into one of the lush green armchairs.

A few minutes later, Hannibal followed him in and stood to the left of the chair, resting a hand on its flared back. Will knew he was about to ask his usual question. Preemptively, he said, “I don’t think I’d like to walk home in the rain.”

The hand at the back of the chair migrated to rest on Will’s shoulder, and Hannibal asked, less playful than usual when asking the same question, “May I drive you home, Will?”

“Please.”

As they left the office together, Hannibal resting a gentle hand at the nape of Will’s neck, Bedelia watched them with a careful nonchalance. Hannibal announced that he would be taking Will home, and Bedelia raised a brow but said nothing except, “Be safe, the both of you.”

The earth, wet with several hours of hard rain, sank under the tires of Hannibal’s automobile much sooner than before. The storm had mostly passed, but a light rain remained, beating across the windshield of the automobile as Hannibal pulled to a stop at the edge of the mud road. A puddle splashed up Will’s window, and he found himself entranced by how the water ran down the glass in rivulets. His fingertips came to trace over them, slow and deliberate.

“I am afraid we’ll have to walk the rest of the way,” Hannibal said as he began to untie the laces of his polished chestnut shoes. Will glanced over to the man and wondered if he had an umbrella hidden away somewhere in the automobile. Perhaps in the trunk, with the rest of Margot Verger’s leg.

Will thought he had worked it out. Hannibal must have stuffed the corpse of the young woman in the trunk of the automobile and then, when he had asked to go out on the bayou, Hannibal must have taken Margot out with him and dumped her body, still in her white shift dress. But missing her right leg. What Will didn’t know—and didn’t dare to ask—was whether Hannibal had amputated the leg before or after boarding the pirogue and taking her to her grave. He could imagine it both ways: Hannibal’s large, steady frame bent over a dead woman in the back of his automobile on the side of a rarely passed road; or, Hannibal’s large, steady frame bent over a dead woman on a boat rocking gently with his sawing motions. Or perhaps he had removed the leg wherever he had killed her. That was yet another question Will wouldn’t ask.

“Yes,” he murmured, focusing on those hands that, with a surgeon’s precision, had carved away a leg. A life. Now they were helping to roll the hems of blood-red trousers up around Hannibal’s muscular calves, stopping just under the knee.

Hannibal met his eyes then, and Will let the look linger a moment too long. The humidity outside had seeped into the automobile, and he could feel sweat prickle at his forehead under the brown curls that rested there. When he couldn’t stand the heat any longer, from nature or whatever abomination had created Dr. Hannibal Lecter, Will opened the door and stepped out into a muddy puddle, shoes and all. Tiny white bubbles formed around his ankles, and Will took a deep breath of the wet air as rain began to plaster his hair across his face.

He heard rather than saw the other door open and close, and felt Hannibal’s hand brush across his back as the foreigner said, “Are you alright, Will?”

Letting his head fall back so the rain fell onto his face, Will smiled widely and laughed with a wild, carefree spontaneity that might have surprised him if it hadn’t come from his own lips. “Why don’t they write headlines about this?” he asked, spreading his arms out to catch more of the rain on his skin. The pack he held fell into the puddle with a gurgling plop. “Can’t you feel it, Hannibal? It’s magic. It’s electric. It’s even more dangerous than you.”

“Perhaps,” Hannibal replied with a curious but not entirely pleasant elegance. “But the clouds will pass with the wind. I am much harder to be rid of.”

Will turned to the foreigner with a mischievous grin and wrapped his arms around Hannibal’s neck, pulling himself up to kiss the man once before letting go and saying,“I don’t believe you, Dr. Lecter.”

And then he ran, as fast as his legs could take him, toward the bayou. He looked over his shoulder, laughing and teasing, in a challenge to the man who stood in the rain beside a glossy black automobile. Will felt something almost like freedom as he disappeared into the trees. He stopped only once all the way back to his cabin to lean against a tree and tear off his heavy and squelching shoes, leaving them behind as he ran forward with bare feet stomping the earth.

Collapsed on his bed with arms splayed out over his head, Will took heaving breaths and tried to catch up with his heart. Licking the sweat and rain from his hands and arms was Winston, who himself was soaking and muddy, just like Will. Splashes of dirt painted Will’s lower legs, and leaves stuck to his feet, and his hair, weeping into the crocheted blanket on the bed, was desperately tangled. His white cotton shirt was all but transparent and sticking close to his body, and his short trousers were heavy and going cold.

Will couldn’t help but to smile and think that perhaps he was growing insane. Certainly he was not the same person he was when his father was alive—before he left the bayou, before he met Hannibal.

But who was he, then?

Winston perked up suddenly, ears pricked and tail wagging, and jumped off the bed to run for the window beside the cabin’s door. Up on his hind legs, the dog could see across the porch, down the steps, and across the small clearing in which the cabin sat before the water began. Winston barked, and only moments later, a dripping and storming Hannibal opened the door and entered the cabin, carrying in one hand Will’s pack and in the other Will’s ruined shoes.

There was an urge to laugh, but Will settled for a snort, and Hannibal’s eyes narrowed as the dog greeted him, sniffing his crotch and then his hands and then the pack. When Winston realized he would get no attention from Hannibal, he trotted outside and down the steps, leaving the native man and the foreign one alone.

Somehow Will didn’t feel in danger. After all, Bedelia had been right: Jack Crawford hadn’t done anything in a month since Margot’s disappearance, and nothing since the murders began. And certainly the detective wouldn’t look in the bayou, where no one but Will Graham and his dead father lived. Will realized then that he was as invisible as he wanted to be. The trees and the fog were a veil that only the rain could penetrate.

And even if he was in danger, Will felt it might be nice to be killed by Hannibal. To be eaten by him. To become whole with him. It was a visceral feeling, not logical in the slightest, and beyond any explanation. But Will understood.

“You came,” he said with a manic smile.

Hannibal dropped the shoes and pack at the door and slammed it behind him, hard enough to shake the entire cabin on its stilts. His own feet were muddy and left even, measured footprints that contrasted Will’s erratic, dancing ones. The foreigner took a rag from the table and wiped each of his feet clean and then crossed the cabin to where Will was draped on the bed.

Kneeling at the side of the bed, Hannibal wiped Will’s feet and legs clean, too. Firm hands, rough cloth, warmth from contact and friction. Will propped himself up on his elbows to watch as Hannibal worked. His smile fell into open-mouthed concentration, and his heart, having only just calmed after his long, wild run, began to quicken again. Will swallowed in a gulp of air, and Hannibal looked up at him, his eyes dark and filled with an intensity that Will felt bore into him. It was intimate, it was wicked.

“You’ve made a mess, Will.”

Will shivered at the sound of Hannibal’s voice, tight and low and very close to threatening. Emboldened by something approaching mania, Will reached out a clean foot to brush across Hannibal’s wet, slicked back hair. Not gray, not brown. Timeless. Hannibal didn’t lean into the touch, but neither did he lean away from it. He had followed Will into the bayou, hadn’t he?

“I think you were right,” Will murmured, sitting up and leaning forward to take Hannibal’s face between his hands. “I do want you.”

The foreigner dropped the rag and wrapped his fingers around each of Will’s wrists, but didn’t move them. As Will leaned back onto the bed, Hannibal followed, coming up from where he knelt like an alligator out of the black water. Climbing onto the bed with an endless grace that Will didn’t stop to admire, Hannibal straddled his hips and loomed over him, their faces only a breath apart. As he moved up Will’s body, Hannibal slid his hands under the hem of Will’s wet shirt and pulled it up and over his head, tossing it to the side. Water dripped like fresh rain from Hannibal’s hair—which itself fell in strands down into the space between them like cypress branches—onto Will’s face. He pulled the foreigner closer, and Hannibal took in a deep breath through his nose, smelling whatever of Will still remained.

“There is only one thing more natural than the scent of fear,” Hannibal murmured, the warmth of his breath gliding over Will’s cheek. “Only the pheromones of arousal, twisting even the most ghastly diseases into sweet nectar for a searching butterfly.” Will’s eyes flicked between Hannibal’s, and he was about to beg for a kiss when Hannibal said, “The question, then, is whether the butterfly has found a poisonous blossom. Or if the butterfly itself is the poison.”

The blood-red wool of Hannibal’s jacket had gone black, and it was cool against Will’s bare skin as Hannibal dropped his chest to Will’s and pressed their lips together.

It was still a new sensation for Will, to be so close to someone, to nearly become them, to taste them without killing them. He arched up into Hannibal and let his arms wrap around the foreigner’s neck, grasping at wet wool in the right hand and wet hair in the left. He could feel heat coming from every direction, enveloping him, turning him into the humid murk of the bayou, molding him into the empty space.

Will returned the kiss with an eager viridity, giving as much as he took and losing himself in the foreign desire that was quickly becoming native to him. It was neither only tender nor only violent. It was dynamic.

Distant barking shattered the fragile tension between them, and Hannibal pulled away with a jerk and sat back, frowning as he looked out the window beside the door. The bed was too far from it to see anything but the rocking chair on the porch and the trees rising up behind it. Will panted, feeling flushed and concentrating more on Hannibal’s body on top of him than the dog. On how red and wet Hannibal’s lips were, on how sharp the man’s profile was as he stared intently out the window. On the tense cords of his neck that belied his pounding pulse when Hannibal’s voice would not.

A crack of thunder sounded, bringing with it another storm from the south.

“Hannibal,” Will moaned, dragging an open hand down the wet fabric covering the foreigner’s chest and stomach. “There’s nothing.”

After another few moments, in which only Will’s ragged breaths could be heard over the rain on the cabin’s roof, Hannibal’s shoulders relaxed, and he shrugged out of his suit jacket, setting it aside on the bed. The waistcoat and wide tie came off next, and Will swallowed heavily, running fingertips over the muscles under the sleeve of Hannibal’s pale blue dress shirt. Hannibal stared down at him, and Will felt like an animal, stalked and hunted and about to face the death blow, heel to head. Some small part of his mind returned to the night he had found Margot Verger, the night he had been prey, the night he had died, even if he had survived.

He was not that man anymore, either.

The rest of his mind was blank except for desire, and Hannibal’s lips twitched as if to smile before he covered Will’s body with his own again. Closer this time. Their lips fell together naturally, their tongues knowing how to dance by instinct.

Teeth scraped across Will’s lower lip, and he moaned and bucked against the sensation. His head fell back, eyes closed and bruised mouth open. Hannibal kissed and nipped down his jaw and throat. Hot fingers danced down Will’s shoulder and chest, and humid breaths followed as Hannibal migrated south like a monarch. Moving out of instinct, Will reached up to run his fingers through Hannibal’s hair, holding the foreigner’s head to the crook between his neck and left shoulder.

Moaning, Will let his own head fall to the right, baring his throat to the hunter who had him snared. At one particularly sharp bite to his left collarbone, Will arched up, moaning loudly. As he relaxed again, resting against the warmth of the bed under him, his eyelids fluttered open and, through the haze and cabin window, Will made eye contact with a stranger: a hunter with a shotgun swung over his shoulder, who stared at them a moment longer, transfixed and horrified, before jumping and disappearing. The cabin shook as the hunter ran down the rickety stairs, just as another thunderclap boomed, rumbling the entire earth.

Will flailed, pushing Hannibal away from him as he called the foreigner’s name once, then twice, and again, growing more desperate each time. Hannibal sat back, combed his hair back with strong fingers, and frowned, saying, in his deep and syrupy voice, “What is it?”

Winston barked again, closer this time.

Heavy breathing that was once from arousal was now from panic, and Will scrambled out from under Hannibal’s weight and off the bed, running to the window to look out over the bayou surrounding the cabin. The leaves and branches shook with the rain, but they swayed violently to the west, where two figures vanished into the darkness, followed by a mottled and wet mutt, barking like a city trumpeter.

“What is it?” Hannibal repeated, firmer this time, sharper. A command.

“Hunters,” Will said between heaving breaths. He turned and stared at Hannibal, who stood now from the bed and rolled his shoulders. Will was nearly distracted, but this time preservation prevailed. “What if they find her?”

Something seemed to snap in Hannibal as the question fell from Will’s lips. His face went blank and then his lips pulled back into a thin, wicked grimace as he unbuttoned the cuffs of his shirt and rolled the sleeves up to his elbows. He moved differently now, Will thought with a thrill. Still elegant, of course, but with a careful precision, like tightly wound clockwork. Will returned to the bed, picking up Hannibal’s jacket to set it out to dry. The foreigner wouldn’t be needing it. Somewhat to his surprise, Will felt the imbalance in the wool’s weight. While Hannibal finished rolling up his right sleeve, Will slipped his hand into the left interior breast pocket of the jacket and found under his fingers the familiar surface, cool and engraved, of his father’s pocket watch.

It wasn’t exactly surprise that froze Will for a fleeting moment, but that was how he tried to explain it to himself. When he could move again, heart thrumming in his chest, he draped the jacket over the back of one of the mismatched chairs at the table as Hannibal crossed behind him.

“We must hurry, Will,” Hannibal said as he rummaged through cookware until he emerged with a large steel knife, strong fingers wrapped around its simple but well-oiled wooden handle.

Frowning as he saw the glint of clouded light across the blade of the knife, Will swallowed heavily and asked, “Why?”

“It is time for the fisherman to learn the art of the hunt.”

A shiver ran down Will’s spine, and he couldn’t help but let his eyes wander up and down Hannibal’s body, equal parts excited and terrified. He knew what Hannibal meant. Disheveled, armed, commanding. A picture of elegance unraveled into the power hidden beneath. He knew that following the foreigner into the bayou would forever entangle him with the story of the Axeman. The headlines would not spare him, nor the shouting newsboys, nor Jack Crawford if he ever discovered the truth.

And Hannibal hadn’t sold the pocket watch or let it tarnish, forgotten, in a closet.

Will nodded and rushed to the stove and knelt down to pry up the loose floorboard where he kept all manner of dangerous things. Matches and fish hooks and fountain pens and a Bowie knife that his father had kept from a stint in the military. He took the knife and tested its weight in his grip before turning, meeting Hannibal’s dark gaze, and saying, “What happened to ‘hurry’?”

There was a flicker of something in Hannibal’s eyes then, but he left the cabin before Will could recognize it. With a deep breath, Will followed, and found that slipping into the tangle was more natural than he could have ever imagined.

Will had watched animals stalk their prey before. And now he watched Hannibal step carefully across the muddy bayou ground, ducking under and sidestepping heavy cypress branches, camouflaged in the sound of the thunderstorm rolling overhead. Will followed two steps behind, layering his footsteps over Hannibal’s.

A gunshot sounded in the distance, and Hannibal’s head snapped back to watch the canopy shimmer and shake off to the west. Birds took flight, and Hannibal found his direction instantly, forging a path where before there was none. On the hunt.

They kept a quick pace, tracking broken twigs pressed into soft ground and gunshots in the ever-shortening distance. Within fifteen minutes, they were watching two hunters bicker about which direction to go from behind the truck of a large black gum tree whose leaves were fading into beautiful ambers and reds. Will glanced up into its branches and saw a small cluster of monarch butterflies taking cover from the rain. They were the last of the migration to the mountain.

“Now, I told you,” the larger of the hunters—and not the one that had peered into the cabin’s window—said, “I saw the monarch come this way. Eighteen points!”

The other hunter, appearing still to be rattled from his encounter at the cabin, shook his head and said, “It ain’t worth it, brother. I got a bad feeling.”

Hannibal reached back behind him to pull Will close enough to whisper into his ear, “You’ll take the small one.” Will nodded, trying to calm his racing heart. He was convinced it could be heard over the patter of the rain at the canopy of the bayou and over the drops that made it through to splash into the black water and form tiny white bubbles along the murky surface. The abandoned hunting cabin was just on the opposite shore now.

The braver of the two hunters led the way along the edge of the water, with Hannibal and Will stalking behind, hidden by the veil of the bayou. The hunter froze, pulling his shotgun off his shoulder and bringing it level as he murmured, “Ten o’clock, Alva.”

Will followed the line formed by the barrel of the shotgun, and there he saw the antlers of a great stag peeking out from the heavy cover of the underbrush. It grazed on wet peppergrass and mushrooms, all vibrant autumn reds and verdant greens under the storm, and its short coat was too dark, too chicory brown and smooth. The stag lifted its head, and Will sucked in a quiet breath, which earned him a dark glare from Hannibal. But he was transfixed. The stag’s crown was enormous and twisting, and Will counted eighteen tines that looked like rotting and moss-covered bone.

The first in a series of thunderclaps shook the rain from the leaves, and Hannibal sprang into action, closing the gap to the hunters. Will watched in terror and awe as Hannibal quickly disarmed the larger of the hunters, knocking the shotgun aside before the hunter could get off a shot, and it came to a hesitant rest at the base of a cypress tree on the edge of the water. The hunter yelped, but the sound was masked under another roll of rumbling thunder.

“Will!” Hannibal barked as he held the hunter from behind on the muddy ground, with the blade of the kitchen knife pressed hard against the man’s neck. The steel drew a frosty white line across tanned, weathered skin, and something in Will broke.

His mind went blank as he darted for the smaller hunter, who hadn’t yet had time to react or take up his own shotgun, but who _was_ able to make eye contact with his end. Will could see a flash of recognition in the hunter’s eyes, and it drove him forward even faster.

It was not elegant. It was not beautiful.

The serrated blade of his Bowie knife made a mess of the hunter’s throat. It caught on a prominent Adam’s apple and mangled a snarl of twisting and straining muscles. At first a torrent of blood splattered up across Will’s face and chest, and then, as the pressure faded with the man’s consciousness, hot blood ran down Will’s hands and arms and sank into the ground beneath them, mixing with the mud until they were indistinguishable. He sawed carelessly to the bones of the hunter’s spine, which glowed white against the rainbow of the autumn bayou and the dying flesh. The knife cut through the last sinews, and the hunter’s head dropped from its shoulders, rolling down the slope to the water’s edge to come to a gentle rest in a bed of new aster blooms. In Will’s manic adrenaline high, he didn’t feel like a hunter.

He felt like a god.

Rain came down through a break in the canopy cover overhead, soaking Will to the bone and washing the blood from his face. He squinted as his eyes burned, looking to Hannibal, who watched him with a curious and very nearly fond cock of the head. And then past Hannibal, across the water, where the monarch stag stood. The stag seemed to look at Will, as if it could see directly through him, and that was all he needed to break from the strange fugue that had overtaken him.

Will let out a strangled sob, loud and anguished, just as thunder struck again, and the stag bounded off into the shifting colors of the bayou. Looking down at his hands, covered in blood and sinew and shaking violently, Will screamed. He stumbled to his feet, backed away from the hunter with a reckless impulse, and tripped over a cypress root, falling on his back to the ground and letting out heaving, breathless sobs as he realized what he had done. What he had become.

He scrambled back as far as he could, not wanting to see the butchered and decapitated corpse of the hunter that he himself had put to rest there, nestled in the rot of a fading and twisting summer. The corpse of a stranger who did nothing to deserve his death except to look into the wrong window at the wrong time.

Hannibal strode toward Will, still holding the kitchen knife in his left hand. The blade dripped black blood into the mud. Backlit and haloed by the golden sunlight that peeked through the last of the storm clouds, the foreigner smiled softly. Will was struck then by the impression that it was no longer Hannibal who was the foreigner. Even his own body felt foreign to Will then, shaking and hurting and burning and needing more.

“It seems you have made another mess,” Hannibal said, glancing at the mutilated hunter. Will sobbed and curled into himself. When he realized he still held the bloody Bowie knife, he threw it as hard as he could, but with muscles feeble from exhaustion and confusion, so it came to a rest only a few feet away.

What had he become?

“It is helpful, then, that nature, the most practiced and best equipped custodian, works in our favor. She is a master of confidentiality, as well.” Hannibal knelt beside Will and brushed back his soaking and tangled hair, cradling Will close to his body before whispering, “She is a dependable partner, and the detectives never consider her at all. Perhaps that makes her an unrivaled hunter.”

Will clutched close to Hannibal’s chest, where the thin fabric of his blue shirt clung to well-defined and tense muscles. When wet through, a faint pinstripe in the material became more pronounced. Somehow no blood stained the shirt, until, of course, Will pressed into it, and the blood that coated his arms and chest ruined the perfection. Perhaps some had gotten on the red wool of Hannibal’s trousers and had disappeared into the weave. Hot tears blended with warm rain that chilled on Will’s skin, and Hannibal rubbed his back in circular strokes.

They sat in the bayou there for what felt to Will like an eternity, until his breathing calmed and his mind, running away from him, had circled back to his first question, which he finally voiced to Hannibal with a tremble: “What am I?”

A monster? A foreigner?

“A hunter,” Hannibal murmured, tucking his face into the crook of Will’s neck and taking in a deep breath of the sweat and fear there. Will flinched away as lips pressed against the clammy skin just behind his ear.

Will shook his head, pulling back enough to look at Hannibal’s face properly. “No,” he said, glancing to the corpses only a few paces away. “No, we have to go to the city. To Crawford. We have to tell them. We won’t get aw-”

His rambling stopped only with a slap across the cheek. Hannibal stared at him with those same dangerous alligator eyes, hard and blank and demanding.

“Absolutely not, Will.”

“Hannibal—”

Will was hauled up then by a firm grasp at the base of his neck, and Hannibal dragged him to the corpses. Will struggled as he tried to wriggle away, but Hannibal held strong, and all but shoved Will’s nose in the bloody stump of the dead hunter’s neck. Hannibal pressed his face against Will’s neck from behind, nipping at the lobe of Will’s ear, and Will shivered at the murmur that brushed across his skin: “You are not just a hunter. You have taken one step into the life of a murderer, and it is not a threshold one can comfortably straddle.”

“I want to go back,” Will replied without hesitation, trying to look anywhere but at his sloppy handiwork. Instead he looked to the other corpse, whose neck had been tidily sliced and bled dry. The larger hunter’s stomach had been peeled open, and organs removed with a surgical precision, set aside with a cut of muscle from each thigh.

Hannibal’s husky voice tickled Will’s jaw. “You cannot go back, Will. I cannot allow it. You know too much now.”

“You’re the Axeman.”

A hand slipped around Will’s waist and warm fingers brushed across the sensitive skin of Will’s lower stomach and then dipped under the waistband of his short and filthy trousers. “You said I could trust you,” Hannibal purred. With steady hands, Hannibal turned Will to face him, chest to chest, and Will felt that strange sensation of power return and twist with the arousal that bubbled up from his gut. He swallowed heavily and nodded. His reward was a hot, bloody kiss that lasted only a breath and left Will needing more.

“Hannibal.”

“I will prepare your kill. Please dispose of the other carcass in the bayou. Can you do that for me?”

Will said he could, and as Hannibal knelt with the kitchen knife at the side of the decapitated hunter, Will crossed to the dissected one. He wrapped his arms under the body and lifted it, slowly, as if he expected it weight as much as a living man or a catfish. Blood coated him once again, mixed with what could have been mud or bile. Without its organs and large muscles, the hunter was easy to carry to the edge of the water, where Will unceremoniously dumped it.

The black bayou, dotted with chains of small, lingering bubbles and now reflecting in the sunlight the shifting colors of the autumn, gave a gurgle as nature had her dinner.

Because he knew the bayou better than anyone else, Will led them back to the cabin. In his arms he carried a bundle of bloody organs. Two hearts, four lungs. One liver because the larger of the hunters had indulged too much in his life. Hannibal carried the knives and the cuts of meat he had carved from both bodies, wrapped in large leaves to keep the front of his shirt from staining with more blood. Will was already too far gone, seeming to be more blood than filth. It was drying now, in the warmth of the newfound sun, and spidery patterns cracked into the mess that caked the skin of his chest.

Winston was waiting for them at the base of the cabin’s steps. He nuzzled up to Will first, and then to Hannibal. Neither had a hand free to give the dog a scratch, and the mutt trotted up the steps after them and into the cabin. When Will dumped the organs on the table, Winston whined and begged, and Will had to push the head of his beloved dog away with a hand covered in the muck of death or killing.

“Dried or smoked will be best,” Hannibal said as he set down the wrapped cuts of muscle. “I am afraid they will not be nearly as tender as Margot, so perhaps it is best not to get one’s hopes up, or waste the energy to roast them well.”

Will wasn’t listening. He was too focused on Hannibal’s face, on the high and sharp cheekbones and ridge of his brow, on the strong jaw that had been clean-shaven in the morning but now boasted a faint hint of stubble, on the thin lips and alligator eyes. Somehow, despite the wrinkles and lines, in that moment, Hannibal was young and virile and by far the most handsome man Will had ever seen. The most powerful he had ever known. With hands that were at the same time tender and violent, eyes that twinkled and glared, lips that smiled and grimaced and kissed Will so deeply he felt like a part of him had been cut away by a surgeon’s knife. The only way to be whole again was to take Hannibal into his arms and, by necessary extension—one Will was more and more willing to accept—into his life.

“I need you,” Will murmured, his eyes half-lidded in arousal as he closed the distance between the himself, the native, and Hannibal, the foreigner. It was no longer desire, it was necessity. Compulsion.

Hannibal’s arms wrapped around him as if by nature, and it didn’t matter that Will had no experience or concept of what the moment should have been. Their lips met, and Will could taste blood and sweat and _Hannibal_. He pushed up into the embrace, as if he could disappear into strong arms and bury himself deep in the murk of Hannibal’s very existence to never return.

Winston took the opportunity to jump up and paw indiscriminately at the table until the one remaining liver fell off the edge and landed on the floor with a dull thud. The dog snapped up the treat and trotted out of the cabin to enjoy it in the sunlight.

With hands shaking from lust rather than terror, Will worked at the buttons of Hannibal’s shirt, pulling at them impatiently but refusing help when it was offered. When he exposed Hannibal’s chest, firm and dusted with dark hair, Will yanked the tails of the shirt out from the waistband of those red woolen trousers. Without breaking the kiss, Hannibal rolled his shoulders and let the shirt fall to the floor in a puddle of stained fabric. Will didn’t waste a moment to press his hands flat against the warm skin and taut muscles of Hannibal’s stomach, trying like a blind man to memorize the shape of the foreigner.

Hannibal walked them backwards, until the back of Will’s knees hit the edge of the bed, where only an hour earlier they had come so close to what they both wanted, and then they had chased and taken what they both needed. With one appetite sated, the other grew stronger until neither could deny it any longer. Will fell back onto the bed and Hannibal followed close behind. Skin to skin, Will thought that maybe the blood on his chest would bond them together like cement. Desperation grew in him, and he moaned and begged for more—although he didn’t know what more was—between rough kisses that might have been their own sort of violent, intimate hunt. Hannibal’s hands on him, lips on him, body on him, it was all too much and not nearly enough.

“Please,” Will moaned as he tossed his head back, bucking his hips up into Hannibal to rut like an animal against him. Firm hands grasped his hips and held him still, and then fingers slipped under the waistband of his trousers, and Will could feel the chill of air surround him as Hannibal removed what remained of Will’s clothing. He was bare then, but for the blood and sweat and mud and need, and as Will’s eyes fluttered open to focus on Hannibal’s face, so close to him, he felt no shame at all, although he knew he should have.

He was a monster.

Hannibal’s accent was thick and husky as he said, “What do you know of the ways that bodies come together? Of bringing another so close that you will feel the phantoms of their touch for days? What has the bayou taught you on this subject, Will?”

“Nothing,” Will whispered, brushing a hand across the stubble on Hannibal’s jaw.

A slow smile crept across Hannibal’s face, and he said, “Then I will teach you.”

Hot fingers wrapped around Will’s half-hard cock, where never before had another touched him, and his hips pressed up into Hannibal’s hand by instinct of pleasure. A sharp gasp came from his lips at the same time, and Hannibal bent to capture it in his own mouth with a bruising kiss. Will was burning alive, turning to rot and ash from which a great cypress would rise. A resurrection.

Hannibal broke the kiss to hold Will close and roll them on the bed until their positions had reversed, and Will was straddled over the wool-covered bulge of Hannibal’s erection. Swallowing heavily, Will let Hannibal guide his hands to the closure of Hannibal’s trousers, let Hannibal help him to unfasten them and then tug them down to reveal a handsome, elegant cock that could only belong to Dr. Hannibal Lecter. With the memory of Hannibal’s hand wrapped around him fresh in Will’s mind, he did the same, taking Hannibal’s length in his fingers. He was still for several breaths as an ache formed inside him, and after a moment, Hannibal covered Will’s hand with his own and guided Will to stroke him with long, slow movements.

“Good,” Hannibal murmured, moving his hand from around Will’s to rest where Will’s thigh met his hip.

Will rocked his hips forward, until his cock brushed Hannibal’s, and at the fleeting touch, he sucked in a deep breath and let out a shuddering moan. He pressed one hand in the center of Hannibal’s chest and leaned hard into him, fingernails digging into flesh and muscle. Under his palm was the steady rhythm of the foreigner’s heart, alive and strong. Will stroked Hannibal’s cock in time to his pulse, three heartbeats from base to tip, a slight and instinctual twist of the wrist, and then three more back down the foreigner’s length. Pearly beads of fluid dripped from the head of Hannibal’s cock and helped Will’s hand to glide almost effortlessly. Will’s own cock twitched and wept, and his hips rolled again, looking for even the slightest friction.

Pleasure pulled at Hannibal’s features, and that more than anything thrilled Will. To know that it was him and his actions that broke some facet of an elegant man’s composure. That made him human—or close to it—despite everything.

“Will,” Hannibal said quietly, reaching to pull Will’s hand from his cock. When Will frowned, Hannibal said again, “Will,” and maneuvered them with a slow intention that was impossible for Will to match. He first pulled the native man close to his chest before lifting one of Will’s legs to swing it to meet the other, and then rolled them both on their sides, so they laid chest to chest beside one another. As they were now, Hannibal could kiss Will again and drape an arm across his waist and rest a hand at the base of Will’s back, just before the swell of his ass. Between their bodies, mud and blood mixed into something almost pure.

Moaning at the sudden and overwhelming contact from shoulder to shin, Will indulged in the kiss and nearly didn’t notice Hannibal’s hand at his back trailing down until a hot fingertip came to brush at his virgin entrance. He let out a low whimper as he pressed his forehead to Hannibal’s, saying into the air between them, “What…”

“Shh,” Hannibal replied, pressing yet another kiss to Will’s bloodied lips, before murmuring, “Do you trust me, Will?”

Will swallowed and nodded his head, whispering, “Yes.”

And it was the truth. One that Will could not explain, like many facts of nature, and one that did not scare him as much as it should have. His fear had been left behind in the bayou, dumped into the water with the decapitated body of a hunter who had become prey. All that remained was the sweet, magnolia scent of arousal rotting away at the last roots of sanity and normality.

Hannibal did not respond in words, but instead pressed the tip of his middle finger, with a slow but firm pressure, past the barrier of Will’s entrance. Will gasped, at first trying to pull his hips away from the invasion and into Hannibal, but the foreigner paused to say, “Relax. Push back and it will be easier.”

Taking a deep breath, Will forced his muscles to release their tension, acutely aware of the burn and stretch as he pushed back into the hand that cupped him from behind and let Hannibal breach him—not for the first time, but different now, physical. He took a sharp catch breath and bent his head to press his forehead into Hannibal’s shoulder. His fingers wrapped around Hannibal’s upper arm and held tight, bracing himself against the foreign intrusion.

As the ache faded, Will rocked his hips back and let out a long, low sigh, pressing a few hot, butterfly kisses to the point just beneath Hannibal’s collarbone. The finger inside him shifted and brushed a spot that made him gasp, clenching tight and digging his fingernails into Hannibal’s arm.

The foreigner’s laugh was fond and breathy, and he said, “It’s worth the pain, yes?” Will nodded and pressed his lips to Hannibal’s again, desperate for more, desperate to disappear into Hannibal’s touch. Hannibal gave it to him, slowly pressing a second finger to join the first. The burn overwhelmed Will, brought the sharp prick of tears to his eyes, even as he pushed back into it, but he was rewarded with another brush of fierce pleasure that pulled a sobbing moan from his lips.

Will cried as every part of his mind was flooded with so many conflicting thoughts and feelings and images that it all faded into background noise, and all he could focus on was Hannibal kissing away tears as they fell, hugging him closer, carefully scissoring fingers inside him, and murmuring quiet encouragements into his ear.

Somehow, time felt to bound away from Will like a hunted stag and at simultaneously to become stagnant like the murky water of the bayou. Will let out a deep breath and relaxed completely, let go of everything except the man he held close.

“Are you ready, Will?” Hannibal asked, his voice warm and encouraging, as he pressed another kiss to the corner of Will’s mouth.

For what, Will didn’t know. And yet, it didn’t matter in that honest, transient moment, as sunlight filtered through red autumn leaves and into the cabin through the window that had once betrayed them. It dappled the rugs on the cabin’s wooden floor, and it seemed almost, if one could not see the muddy and rain-wet ground below, that a storm had never come at all. Was the bayou ever ready for what nature gave or took?

“Yes.”

Hannibal withdrew his fingers from Will’s body, and a shiver ran through Will’s core at the sudden cold sensation of being too empty, of missing part of himself. Hannibal guided Will to roll onto his other side, where he kissed at the back of Will’s shoulder. The whisper scratch of stubble at his sensitive skin, where only the sun and the haze had caressed him so tenderly before. Will’s head fell back against Hannibal’s shoulder—not unlike how he had laid against Margot Verger’s corpse, he realized with a calm contentment—and Hannibal’s open hand moved to cover Will’s mouth.

Instinct told him what to do before Hannibal did, and Will reached out with his tongue to taste the salty nectar of Hannibal’s palm, lapping broad strokes across the well-hidden callouses of elegance. Wet kisses alternated with licks, and Will pushed his hips back so Hannibal’s swollen cock pressed tantalizingly against the rise of his ass. It was Hannibal who moaned this time, low and rumbling against Will’s spine.

The hand pulled away too soon, and Will protested by grinding his hips back harder, murmuring, “Please, Hannibal.”

Reaching between them, Hannibal kissed Will’s shoulder again. Will arched back into the touch and looked over his shoulder as best he could to watch Hannibal’s strong, saliva-wet hand wrap around his own cock, stroking himself once then twice before lining himself up with Will’s entrance. Quietly, begging now, Will repeated his plea, and Hannibal gave him what he needed.

The broad, hot head of Hannibal’s cock pressed against Will’s entrance, and Will let out a low, shuddering breath as Hannibal entered him and filled that deep and unspeakable emptiness. Fed a hunger that was born in his childhood and lingered inside him, constant and subdued until Will had met Dr. Hannibal Lecter.

It hurt, even with Will’s saliva to ease the friction. But this time no tears came, no flooding thoughts, no pause in the heat. And it was worth the pain.

Will pushed his hips back until Hannibal’s cock was buried in him as far as possible, and then he clenched down on Hannibal just to hear that delicious, sweet moan in his ear. It came with what might have been a growl, and Will’s cock responded with a pleasant twitch. The hand that had guided Hannibal into him moved to grasp Will’s hip hard enough to bruise, and slowly the foreigner’s hips pulled back before snapping forward again with enough force to wrench a strangled moan from Will’s lips.

Resting his hand over Hannibal’s at his hip, Will bit his lip hard as the foreigner thrust into him, and gave a breathless cry as, once again, Hannibal brushed that most sensitive point inside him. Will knew by that alone that he was meant, by nature or God or whatever abomination might have brought them together, to have Hannibal inside him like he did now.

“Hannibal,” Will murmured, hand sliding back further to rest now on the foreigner’s hip, holding him still, deep inside him, as Will rolled carefully onto his stomach so that Hannibal’s weight on top of him gave him the friction his cock needed against the crocheted blanket. He pushed up onto his knees and back into the heat of Hannibal’s body. Under him he could see the white of the blanket stained by the rusty blood that had dried on his chest. It would never come clean, but that certainly wasn’t the only reason Will would never forget this moment, or the ones before it—or, he imagined, the ones to follow.

Another thrust, this one deeper than any before, and as a gasp caught in Will’s throat, Hannibal wrapped a hand around Will’s waist to take Will’s cock in his hand, saying, “Instinct is perhaps the best teacher.”

“No,” Will said then, turning his head as much as he could to see Hannibal’s face and tousled hair in his periphery. He rocked his hips between Hannibal’s body and hand, heat consuming him from every direction, and said, “You are.”

Some soft, fond expression crossed Hannibal’s face, nearly masked by the same pleasure for which Will had delighted to take responsibility. Will now he wished he could be face to face again with his new lover, to kiss Hannibal and memorize that indulgent look and wrap his legs around Hannibal’s waist and rut against the trail of hair that rose up the foreigner’s stomach from the base of his cock.

It seemed almost as if Hannibal knew, for he pressed his lips to the edge of Will’s mouth, as close to a proper kiss as they could manage, and then, when Will let his head fall and dangle between his shoulders, Hannibal kissed down the back of Will’s neck and across his shoulder blade, sucking bruises every few inches and nipping where he didn’t bruise. All the while, his hand around Will’s cock stroked in rhythm with steady, deep thrusts, and Will felt like he might faint or die or float away if ever Hannibal’s weight wasn’t holding him down. He was quickly approaching some great and unknown abyss for which he didn’t have a name, but it loomed just ahead of him, some elusive monarch stag urging him forward with nothing but a hollow stare.

Hannibal’s rhythm faltered, and it was the minute variations in sensation—too much and all at once—that pushed Will toward the stag.

He came hard and fast, clenching around Hannibal and moaning loudly, and collapsed onto the bed, breathing hard. Hannibal followed soon after, and Will realized that perhaps he was a stag, too. There was a moment in which he wondered if only death could transcend an experience like this one. Everything was hot and sticky, from sweat or come or some syrupy affection that he had never felt before. Even inside him, where Hannibal’s cock still rested, twitching in delicious aftershocks as Hannibal breathed heavily in Will’s ear.

Fatigue hit him like buckshot, all over and radiating from his core, which throbbed and ached and burned with residual pleasure. Will’s eyes fluttered closed, and he felt rather than saw Hannibal pull the ruined blanket over both of their bodies before draping a heavy arm over Will’s waist.

Will was asleep before he could hear Hannibal murmur something sweet or deadly or both in a foreign language andthen press his lips to the sensitive skin just behind Will’s ear.

Dawn had broken with an autumn chill by the time Will woke, sleeping on his side with a tingling arm draped over the stomach of Dr. Hannibal Lecter and a leg thrown over his hips for good measure. His head rested on the foreigner’s chest, with coarse hairs pressing patterns into his cheek, and every fiber of Will’s body ached beautifully.

“Good morning, Will,” Hannibal said, his voice husky with sleep, and rumbling under Will’s ear. His fingers played in Will’s hair, which had dried crunchy with sweat.

It had been just before dusk the day before when Will had awoken for what felt like the first time in his life. Hannibal had already gotten up, and the cool absence of the bed had startled Will at first. Panic had risen in his chest until his hazy vision cleared and he saw Hannibal, naked and dangerously handsome, preparing a meal from the lungs of slaughtered hunters.

They had eaten slowly and with their knees touching under the table, and Hannibal had made one too many wry comments about Will’s uncomfortable shifting on the edge of his hard chair.

“I’ll kill you, too,” Will had teased, jabbing the tines of his fork in Hannibal’s direction. That was all the provocation needed, and Will had found himself yanked into Hannibal’s lap, indulging a forbidden hunger for the second time in only a matter of hours.

Somehow now, as Will laid contented with Hannibal and as the day’s first shards of sunlight came through the cabin window, it felt like they had been together forever. Or perhaps, at least, for the only part of forever that truly mattered. Will smiled to himself as he responded with a quiet, “Good morning, Hannibal.”

The glossy black automobile came to a halt in front of Dr. Du Maurier’s Medicines just as the newsboy outside ducked into a cafe to take his breakfast. Hannibal stepped out wearing the same rusty red suit from the day before, with trousers and waistcoat and tie and jacket, but wearing now a white shirt, and one that pulled much too tight across his chest. It had once belonged to Will’s father, who was a much lankier man. Will wore his usual combination of thin clothes, but without shoes now. They had been properly ruined by the mud. Hannibal had offered to purchase another pair, as seemed so easy for Hannibal to do.

With Hannibal’s hand at the small of his back and a slight twinge to his step, Will walked into Bedelia’s shop, half expecting Jack Crawford to be waiting for him, holding up the severed head of the hunter Will had killed. But there was no one, not even Bedelia.

They stepped into the office, where a soft violin melody drifted from the bell of a phonograph. Will could see Bedelia as a mere shadow behind the oriental screen, working on her medicines. At their approaching footsteps, Bedelia called out, “I worried you might have gotten caught in the storm. I should hope you didn’t stay with Will, but I’m sure I can imagine what happened.”

Will froze. Bedelia must not have realized that he was there. What did she know? He sent Hannibal a desperate look, but Hannibal smiled and held Will close, saying, “Yes, I suppose so. Perhaps we should quiz her, Will?”

Bedelia’s head poked around the screen then, and she gave an incredulous laugh, shaking her head as she said, “Well, at least you avoided the Axeman.” She gestured broadly to the low table between the green chairs, where a newspaper sat open to a page of advertisements. The most prominent one was for the very shop they stood in, promising cures for any ailment.

Every muscle in Will’s body tensed up, his jaw clenching so hard his teeth ached, and he sucked in a deep breath. Had they already been discovered? While Will had let himself go, let himself melt into the crevices of Hannibal’s body, had someone found the bodies of the hunters? Had someone else, this time unnoticed, seen them through the cabin window? Panic was the immediate response, and it seemed as if both Bedelia and Hannibal could sense it. Bedelia stood from her work and brought a small vial to Will and instructed him to drink it, which he did, while Hannibal went to pick up the newspaper and push it into Will’s hands.

_OCTOBER 8, 1919—AXEMAN STRIKES AGAIN_

Filling the center of the front page just under the headline was an image of a man in a crisp military uniform. Garret Jacob Hobbs, a decorated veteran of the Great War—which itself was a horror Will had escaped in the bayou—now dead in an alley behind the grocery store on Basin Street that his family had owned for decades. His skull had been cleaved open by an axe, the article said. He left behind only a daughter, Abigail. And once again, the newspaper assured its readers, Detective Jack Crawford was committed to finding this most heinous villain.

Will’s anxiety faded, although he was not sure if the relief came from the news itself or the potion Bedelia had given him. He let out a deep breath as he read through the article again and a third time, just to make sure the words hadn’t changed while he looked away.

The bell on the counter just outside the red doors rang once, delicate among the violins, and Bedelia collected a small box of her finished vials and carried them out, leaving Will and Hannibal alone in the office.

“I don’t understand,” Will said, looking up to Hannibal, whose thin smirk grew wide.

The foreigner winked at him and took the newspaper from Will’s hands with a rustle. “He’s quite handsome, isn’t he?” Hannibal mused casually.

“Hannibal.”

After returning the paper to the table where it had come from, Hannibal sat in one of the green chairs and crossed his legs, ever so proper, and laced his fingers to rest on his knee. Will followed, sitting in the chair opposite and staring intently at his new lover, the man he had thought to be the Axeman.

“As I’m sure you can understand,” Hannibal began after a moment in which only a weary, sorrowful violin solo filled the space, “a lifestyle like mine—ours—can be rather bothersome to a community, even when it should not be.” He lowered his voice, but the chatter of Bedelia and her customer, layered with the music from the phonograph, were cover enough. “Bothersome to the extent that people like Jack Crawford are employed with the sole duty to see us imprisoned.”

An orchestra swelled behind the violin, and Will sucked in a deep breath, biting his lip and waiting for Hannibal to continue.

“It is advantageous, therefore, to act in the shadow of an already recognized agent, such that anything we may do is attributed thusly to them, and we may go unsuspected.” Will nodded once, but Hannibal went on. “I arrived in New Orleans only two months ago, well after the first two Axeman murders. It is impossible, in the minds of honest men, for me to be the sinner.”

Will wasn’t sure whether to trust the flooding comfort that Hannibal was not a wanted man or the sharp realization that the Axeman was still free and unknown. Hannibal reached out to take Will’s hands in his.

“Forgive me, Will, but I am afraid I must ask again.” A thumb stroked the side of Will’s knuckle, where a small scar had formed from Will’s incident with the kitchen knife what felt like a lifetime ago. “Can I trust you?”

The symphony reached a climax, and Will didn’t speak until only the last echoes of the music remained.

“Yes, of course.” He swallowed heavily and then pulled his hands away, sitting back in the chair. He met Hannibal’s eyes and, feeling quite somber as the reality of this new life sank in like a swallowed fish hook, asked his own question. “And can I trust you?”

It was a smile first, one that softened alligator eyes, and then a slight nod. “Naturally.”


	4. A Promise

Over the course of several weeks, as autumn descended on New Orleans, Will had watched Hannibal befriend poor Abigail Hobbs. She was a sweet and precocious young woman whose innocence, Hannibal once said fondly, rivaled Will’s, despite the fact that she had lived her entire life in the city. Hannibal rather liked her, Will thought, not without a small twinge of jealousy.

But his jealousy faded before it became bitter when he sat with Abigail in a cafe, both of them dressed in clothes that Hannibal had bought, and she confided in him that Hannibal was something of a father to her. Protective, doting. He had given her advice on selling the grocery store that had been in her family for so long that no one in New Orleans could remember another owner. He had listened to her relationship troubles and guided her through the strange new world of adulthood, urging her not to marry the first man who asked. She spoke about Hannibal the way Will thought about him: with a faint adoration woven through with gratitude.

So it was to some surprise that, when Hannibal decided to fulfill a promise to teach Will how to hunt elegantly, it was an uncoordinated and stumbling Abigail who appeared to take the role of the chosen victim. She wore a simple black dress, still mourning her father, and her long hair was loose around her shoulders. Her feet were muddy, as Will had expected, but so too was a patch at the back of her dress, where she must have fallen to the earth somewhere between Hannibal’s automobile and the cabin in the bayou.

Will frowned as Hannibal came up behind Abigail, who smiled foolishly and said, her usual soft but crisp voice slurring as if drunk, “Father told me you wanted to see me.”

“Father?” Will asked with a suspicious edge, raising an eyebrow in Hannibal’s direction.

Hannibal said, “Even mild sedatives are known sometimes to cause delusions.”

Abigail tripped over her own feet as she spotted Winston in his usual corner and hurried toward him. The dog perked up and happily allowed Abigail to wrap her arms around him and bury her face in his mottled fur.

“It doesn’t seem mild, Hannibal,” Will said, crossing his arms over his chest. “It seems like you’ve turned her into a child.” As Hannibal came close, Will wondered if perhaps the slight pang of worry he felt was paternal in nature. His own usual anxieties had not faded since he had immersed himself in Hannibal’s life, but they were different now, and concern over a young woman he had known only briefly and superficially was something he didn’t expect of himself.

After pressing a gentle kiss to his forehead, Hannibal said, “I confess—she has also taken an analgesic to help with the pain.”

Pain. Will bit his lip and glanced sidelong at Abigail, who was tugging on one end of a human femur while Winston chewed on the other. She looked small, sitting crosslegged on the floor in the corner of the cabin, as if she had lost ten years from her life in the journey from New Orleans to the bayou. Soon she would lose the rest.

“Why her?” Will asked, thinking back to the night where, as he laid curled in Hannibal’s arms, Hannibal had told him how fear taints the flavor of the meat, so a hunter must always take care to ease the panic an animal might feel, and to take its life in one graceful motion whenever possible. Those were the most beautiful deaths, Hannibal said. Will had asked for another lesson, and, now, he almost regretted it.

Hannibal reached into his jacket and pulled out the silver pocket watch, on which he checked the time and then glanced to Abigail. “We have little time to waste, Will,” he said, slipping the trinket back into his pocket. “The elixirs will fade soon, and then your work will become much more difficult.”

Will repeated his question, somewhat impatient.

“She is alone,” Hannibal said. When Will gestured for him to continue, he added, “No family, no lover, not wealthy enough to draw attention to her disappearance, and very naive. She would not make it in this life.”

The immediate response that rose to Will’s tongue was to ask why Hannibal was allowed to make that decision, but Abigail spoke before he could, and he just sighed instead. After all, he had asked for a lesson, and Hannibal, generous as ever, had brought him one.

“I don’t feel well, Father. Might you have something to drink?”

All that was in the cabin was a bottle of rye whiskey—which Hannibal had introduced to Will and for which Will had taken a strong preference—and two bottles of wine that Bedelia had given to Will along with his usual chicory. Will had already finished the morning’s coffee.

Hannibal poured a small dose of wine into one of the battered steel cups, striding over to Abigail and kneeling beside her to lift the cup to her lips. He stroked Abigail’s hair with a light touch, tucking a stray strand behind her ear. Glancing over his shoulder to Will, Hannibal said, “We’ll take the kitchen knife.”

Will was struck by Hannibal’s tender and, indeed, paternal demeanor with Abigail. He could almost imagine the three of them living as a happy family in a large castle in Lithuania, in another life. Because Hannibal was right in at least one way: Abigail Hobbs would not make it in this life. Perhaps neither would Will. But he could dream of pure contentment and bliss as a hunter in a foreign land.

With a nod, Will turned to find the kitchen knife, which rested innocuously atop a small basket full of preserved meats of all different origins. It was heavy in his hand, although not for the weight of the steel or wood. Adjusting his grip, Will tested the blade by pressing its tip into the wicker of the basket. Along with calming fear, Hannibal had told him, it was important to have a weapon that will make easy work of one’s prey. The basket gave easily, and Will let out a low sigh, steeling himself as he said, “I’m ready.” It was perhaps a lie, but a necessary one.

Hannibal helped Abigail to her feet and led her by the arm onto the cabin’s porch, still sticky with catfish blood from the morning’s catch. Will closed the door behind them, shooing Winston inside. The foreigner covered Abigail’s eyes with his hand and motioned for Will to step behind her, to press up close to her, which he did, trying to push aside the sensation that he was too intimately close to her, his chest to her back like lovers. And then Hannibal came up behind Will in the same way, one hand still over Abigail’s eyes, and the other guiding Will’s hand and the knife it held. Abigail murmured something that was lost in her haze, and Hannibal soothed her with a gentle stroke of his thumb at her temple. The cool blade pressed then against the skin of her throat, just under her jaw, and the young woman—almost a daughter to them—sucked in a quick breath.

“Father?” she said, pressing back into Will’s body and away from the knife. And yet, she did not sound frightened.

With Hannibal’s guidance, Will pulled the blade closer, and Hannibal whispered in his ear, “In one motion, now. Firm pressure, steady hand. Don’t force a straight line from ear to ear; a gentle arc will do.”

Will glanced over his shoulder to Hannibal, who nodded once at him and then held Will’s hand securely as Will hugged Abigail close and drew the knife across her throat. As oily blood covered his hand, Will almost lost his grip on the knife, but Hannibal kept him from slipping.

She didn’t scream, and gave only a weak, bubbling mewl as her body went limp in Will’s arms. Blood gushed down her chest, and her head lolled back onto Will’s shoulder. Will felt the last breath in her lungs expel slowly through the gaping wound in her neck. As her face went pale, Hannibal stepped back, leaving Will to support her body on his own. Abigail’s eyes stared blankly off into the bayou, and for a fleeting moment that somehow soothed him, Will saw himself in their glassy surface and, thus, in Abigail herself.

From the other side of the cabin door, Will could hear Winston whimpering softly.

It made sense to him. They had both lost fathers and soon after fallen prey to Hannibal. Abigail wouldn’t have survived this life, and neither did Will. It was just a matter, he thought, of how they were laid to rest. Abigail in the bayou, and Will in Hannibal’s arms.

“Lay her down,” Hannibal instructed, stepping aside to avoid blood staining the hems of his checked blue trouser legs. Will did as he was told, setting Abigail’s body down with a gentleness unnecessary for a corpse. He smoothed her hair and straightened her blood-dark dress, and Hannibal said what Will thought: “She is almost more beautiful in death than in life, isn’t she?” Will nodded, brushing the back of his hand over Abigail’s face, streaking red across it, and wondered wistfully if perhaps he could wake her again.

Hannibal’s hand came to rest on Will’s shoulder, and he said, “You mourn her, even though it is you who took her life.”

Will didn’t cry, although he considered he might. As Abigail’s blood fell to the wooden porch and mixed with that of countless catfish, the scent of it filled his nose, and he frowned. “She was ill,” he said by instinct rather than any true evidence. Glancing over his shoulder, Will could see a proud flicker of a smile cross Hannibal’s lips, there and then gone, like Abigail Hobbs’s life.

“Yes. Her kidneys would have killed her if you had not.”

“What a shame,” Will said, finally closing the dead girl’s eyes so he would no longer have to see his reflection. Hannibal then instructed Will to undress Abigail such that he might learn also how to butcher an animal for its meat. Pressing the point of his blade into the bloodstained collar of Abigail’s dress, Will slowly cut and pulled the black fabric away from pale, lifeless skin. When she was naked, he ran a hand over her breast and stomach and hip, realizing he might have been the first and only to do so.

“With moderate pressure,” Hannibal instructed, pointing to demonstrate, “use the tip of the blade to cut in a Y-shape down her torso. Work efficiently, for meat taken before the blood leaves the muscle will always be more tender.”

Focusing on the give of Abigail’s flesh under his hands, and feeling like a corrupted surgeon, Will did what Hannibal said. He was careful not to puncture organs, and when he could, he pulled back the skin to reveal the twisted inner workings of a human body. It looked like organic clockwork, almost ticking as if it still throbbed with life. Hannibal pointed out lungs and heart and stomach and bowels, with Will removing each component as they went. His hands were covered in ichor and blood by the time two enlarged organs, covered in an oily amber substance that Hannibal identified as fat, came into view. Will severed their connections and scooped out the right one, holding it in his cupped hands.

“Within a year, I imagine, these kidneys would be so dysfunctional that bile would fill her veins and rot her from the inside,” Hannibal said. The words were clinical, but the tone much less so. Nearly sentimental. Will turned the organ over in his hands as Hannibal said, “If removed before then, the meat is unaffected.”

Will swiped his thumb over the warm kidney as he said, “We saved her, then. In one way or another.”

“ _You_ saved her, Will.”

“Delicious,” Will said approvingly as he took a sip of peppery red wine. He could already feel the flush rising to his cheeks, as it always seemed to when he drank alcohol. It was a blissful sort of inhibition that the wine gave him, and one that Will found much too pleasant. A brilliant haze fogged his mind and brought forward the inexplicable, innate beauty in everything. Even—or perhaps especially—the meal in front of him, featuring a smoked preparation of Abigail Hobbs’s heart, which Will had cut from her chest himself. Hannibal had even taught him how to cook it, until the muscle was just blackened on the outside and still bloody and tender at the core.

More chicory roasted on the stove for a fresh brew after the meal, and its scent covered or perhaps blended with the usual murky rot of the cabin, which had intensified as the heat of summer faded into a much milder autumn.

Hannibal raised another bite of carrot and garlic-roasted potato to his lips, chewing and swallowing before saying, “Thanks in no small part to a beautiful hunt. Very impressive, Will. I believe you will go far in this life.”

With a cynical snort, Will sat back in his chair, one hand on the opposite bicep and the other holding his wineglass just in front of his lips, as if trying to hide behind it. Or at least to hide the flush, which now he was less certain came from the wine.

“I wish we could sit and eat like this in New Orleans,” Will blurted out, gesturing with his wine glass to the elegant dinner that seemed only to be hampered by its setting. “At a restaurant or wherever it is you’re living.”

In the time that Will had known Hannibal, the foreigner had come to the bayou on countless occasions. And they had both been in Bedelia’s apartment enough to know their way around. But Will had never seen where Hannibal lived, nor had Hannibal invited him there. Will had no idea where even to look. He never saw Hannibal’s automobile anywhere but in front of Bedelia’s shop or the cafe or on the edge of the road where nature overtook manufactured civilization—or perhaps more accurately where civilization had never been.

Hannibal’s jaw tensed just enough to be noticeable, and as he set his fork on his plate, he said, “It is best to be discreet.” There was a brief pause as the foreigner sipped his wine, and Will wondered for a vacant moment if the alcohol also made Hannibal go warm and tingly. Then, Hannibal said, “However, I don’t see why you and I could not enjoy a more typical meal at a restaurant in the city. Of course some people will stare, and perhaps talk, but they would do that no matter who sat beside them.”

“Do you care that they talk?” Will asked, brow pulled into a soft frown. Having grown up away from all the usual customs of love and humans, every aspect of his and Hannibal’s relationship seemed strange to him in some way or another. But it had been Bedelia to suggest that, perhaps, Will should not look at Hannibal as openly as he did. When he had asked why not—only after denying that he did so in the first place—she explained to him with endless tact that, with the Axeman still on the prowl, it was best not to bring any unnecessary attention to oneself.

Will knew all about not drawing attention to himself, didn’t he? He could dissolve into the bayou while waiting for a catfish to set onto his hook. He had gone all his life, until September, being known only to one other human, who was now long dead and buried beneath black water.

“Romance in any form, despite what many in the city may think, is not illegal, and on that point they may talk with my blessing.” Another sip of wine, and Will glanced down at his lap, trying not to smile. “But,” Hannibal added with a heavy tinge of warning, “if they begin to talk about my tastes in lovers, that may necessarily shift to a discussion of my tastes for other corruptions. And that drivel can be much more dangerous.”

Logical, as always, and the caveat should have deflated his mood, but Will was still quite entranced to hear Hannibal call him a lover. Will finished his wine and swirled the empty glass absently as he said, “Corruptions?”

There was a flat stare from the foreigner, and Will raised a brow in response. A stand-off, of sorts, broken only by the clicking of Winston’s nails on the bare wooden floor as the dog came to beg for scraps. Hannibal relented first, slicing off a small piece of Abigail’s heart and offering it out to the dog, wiping his hands on a rag of a napkin after Winston’s tongue wrapped around his fingers. Will couldn’t help a soft smile as he poured himself another glass of wine and took another bite of his meal.

“Exquisite,” Hannibal said as he watched Will.

Taking a sip of that wine that was not blood but might have tasted like it, Will cocked his head to the side and said, “Yes, she was. Is, I suppose.”

“I was referring to you, Will,” Hannibal said, giving Winston, who sat nearby, a scratch behind the ears. “Although, yes, Abigail was rather special.”

Will’s pupils dilated as he inspected the wine in his glass, trying to focus on the way it lingered on the sides of the glass and not on the way the pattern of Hannibal’s jacket reflected off the shifting liquid. There was a moment in which Will considered asking Hannibal to say it again, to make him feel warm inside, to somehow make this moment last forever. Instead he asked another question: “Why form a relationship with her, if you knew you would sit here now, eating her?”

Hannibal, who seemed to have been inspecting Will as intently as Will had his glass, set his cutlery aside and brought the rag to his lips, dabbing away an invisible speck of food. As he returned the rag to his lap, he said, “God’s pleasure is not in creation, Will, but in following his creations through their lives, finding a purpose for their lives, some tangible meaning. Any farmer will say that an animal he has raised and slaughtered and eaten tastes infinitely better than some anonymous slab of meat from a nameless, meaningless creature that was brought to him already wrapped and removed from its animality.”

Power, Will imagined, was also part of the charade. He had seen Hannibal smiling at Abigail, when behind those alligator eyes was the knowledge that her life was quickly ending, in one way or another.

“To be certain a creature, human or otherwise, that one cares deeply about has some lasting and material purpose is what makes one’s grief bearable.” Hannibal sat back in his chair, crossing one knee over the other, and laced his fingers over top. “That certainty is attained in two parts: the first, to know the creature’s life, and second, to know the creature’s death. It is easy to envy God, for he experiences this ataraxia with each of his creatures, every one of us.”

“Ataraxia?”

Hannibal didn’t respond, just smiled, and Will let the question burn to ashes between them. Yes, he thought with his own sense of peace, Abigail did taste sweeter than any other. And his hunger was sated for the moment, and her purpose had been found.

Bedelia hummed along with the music drifting out into Dr. Du Maurier’s Medicines from the phonograph in the office. At times it was bombastic, flitting around on instruments Will had no names for, and at other times nearly like a lullaby. Bedelia had explained to him that it was a new orchestration of a fantastic ballet first premiered almost a decade ago, half a world away.

“Hannibal and I were in Paris to see the opening,” Bedelia said as one movement faded into another. “The crowd stood to applaud at every opportunity, and it was the first time anyone seemed to care about the composer—a strange Russian man named Igor whom I had the great pleasure of meeting the week before the ballet’s premiere.” She glanced up from the counter, where again she was organizing stacks of receipts and orders, to Will, who leaned against a shelf, holding a box of sachets to his hip, happy to listen to Bedelia speak. She went on: “He was ever so sweet, if a bit unorthodox. He invited me to stay with him until his wife and children came.”

Will raised an eyebrow and grinned, saying, “And did you?”

“Certainly not! After all, I was staying with Hannibal, whom Igor notably neglected to invite. However, I did ask him the best place to find wormwood liquor,” she smirked, “and he suggested a lovely little lounge just south of the river, where Hannibal and I had a much more agreeable evening.”

They laughed, and Will returned to sorting sachets on shelves, and Bedelia to her papers. After several minutes, the telltale crinkling of newsprint pulled Will’s attention again. He looked over to the counter and the frowning blonde woman behind it, who wore an elegant and expensive embroidered dress of deep teal silk. It might have been an evening gown, but Bedelia wore it well even in the mid afternoon.

“Is there something wrong?” Will asked with a cautious hesitation.

Clearing her throat, Bedelia set the paper aside and said, “The Tribune seems to believe that the Axeman is not a single man, but perhaps a gang of men, all masquerading under the same name.”

Will felt the blood drain from his face, and his tongue became dry and swollen, and panic began to rise in his chest with the grandiose, dissonant swell of the music’s finale, distorted by the phonograph’s uneven winding. Once the music ended with a boom and the shop was once again thrust into silence, Will managed to say, “Oh?”

At the same time, Bedelia muttered, “Damned machine,” and she ducked into the office to change the cylinder on the phonograph. Will went to the counter to pick up the newspaper, and after a moment, soft jazz filled the silence.

The current theory, Will read on the front page, held that the Axeman gang, of approximately four to five men, worked together in order to provide alibis for one another as they took turns under the name of the Axeman in order to murder unsuspecting townsfolk. Detective Jack Crawford was quoted as saying, “We are currently treating all missing persons as potential victims of one of the more skilled or more discreet Axemen.”

Memories of Margot Verger’s beautiful, lifeless body filled Will’s mind, but in the murky water around her corpse swirled the realization that it would not only be Alana looking for her now.

When Bedelia returned, she frowned upon seeing Will’s hands, which began to tremble while holding the newspaper. “I have said it before and I will likely say it again, but I would ask both you and Hannibal to please be safe,” she said, her voice low and measured.

Will glanced up to her and attempted to feign confusion as he said, “Even if the Axeman—or men—wanted to kill either of us, the bayou—”

“Will,” the blonde interrupted, staring flatly at him. Swallowing back his words, Will felt an anxious tingle in his gut. Bedelia returned to sorting papers and said, “That is not what I meant.”

It was neither panic nor thrill that rushed through him like some potent medicine, warmed in the basin of a spoon and injected into his vein with a hypodermic needle. It very nearly was not even surprise. But still, with a slow, halting caution, Will set the newspaper aside and asked, “How much do you know?”

Bedelia wore deep red lipstick that would have been perfect but for the slight feathering at the bow of her upper lip, which pulled aside in what might have been a grimace but, on a woman like Bedelia, could be mistaken for a smile. She forced out a huffing breath through her nose and shook her head. “While I may not know the specifics,” she said, “I know Hannibal, and I know his tastes.” Any fondness for Hannibal that Will once saw in Bedelia faded into something more cynical, and where once there was anxiety in his gut, there was now a rising annoyance. At whom, however, Will wasn’t sure.

“How do you know?”

She was about to respond when a customer came into the shop and wandered around for an unbearable eternity before asking for some specific tincture, which Bedelia pointed out immediately. Annoyance then shifted to the customer and the parasol that she kept open even inside. The sun wasn’t hot enough for a parasol anymore. In fact, the All Hallow’s Eve mass was only two days away, and all of New Orleans was ramping up for the holiday, except, it seemed, for this woman wasting valuable time and standing between Will and the answers to ease his curiosity.

When the customer finally bought her tincture and left, Bedelia raised an eyebrow in Will’s direction before saying, “I told you how I met him, didn’t I? At Castle Lecter, in Lithuania.” Will nodded but said nothing, and Bedelia continued: “I arrived unannounced and he was very gracious, going so far as to offer me a meal he had cooked himself. I could not refuse—nor did I want to.”

Will could imagine why. After all, when someone as handsome and powerful as Dr. Hannibal Lecter offered or suggested something, it was rarely to one’s benefit to deny him. Briefly Will thought back on when he had first hesitated to allow Hannibal into his cabin. Will was happy to have been weak then.

“He served wine-braised beef heart on a bed of grilled vegetables with freshly baked bread. It was the most delicious meal I had ever partaken. And perhaps I would have been fooled, if I had not made my profession in the medicine and anatomy of humans,” she said with a wry, sneering laugh. She picked up a stack of sorted receipts and set them in a box to take to her apartment at the end of the day, as she did every day. “What appalled me most, however, was not the meal itself, but rather the silver-tongued comments he made about it. Once I realized what we ate, the remarks he had made up until that point became so acidic in my memory that they overpowered the coffee he offered to finish the meal.”

Somewhat affectionately, Will tried to picture the playful alligator eyes that Bedelia must have seen that night. Put perhaps she was not so charmed.

“Why travel with him, or offer him refuge here, if you were so disgusted?” Will asked with a curious tilt of the head.

Bedelia brushed a stray strand of blonde hair behind her ear. “The same reason, I imagine, you allowed him to drive you home. He is rather persuasive, and a wonderful resource. He has helped me many times, so when it was he who needed help, I felt obliged to provide it. Not to mention, he is an incredible travel partner. It seems he speaks every known language and knows every major city of the world as if they were his own estate.”

Will was caught on the comment that Bedelia seemed to rush through, and he pressed on it: “Why did he need help?”

Shaking her head again, and setting free the strand of hair she had just tamed, Bedelia said, “I’m afraid it’s not my story to tell, Will.”

“Do you plan to attend Mass tonight, Will?” Hannibal asked as he took a sugar-dusted beignet from the plate on the cafe table between them. Finally, they were not the only patrons in this small cafe, which had suffered from the fear that filled the city. Another young couple sat at a table on the other side of the cafe, hands reaching across their table to touch, sappy smiles distorting their faces. Will swallowed a bite of his own beignet and looked again to Hannibal, in whose eyes amusement was only thinly veiled.

Will shrugged and said, “I’ve never gone before. But I imagine most of the city will be in the cemeteries, feeling close to their dead.”

“Then perhaps you ought to remain in the bayou. A cemetery in the city would do you no good,” Hannibal said. “And I am sure God can be in two places at once.” There was a clever, playful glint in those dark alligator eyes, and Will couldn’t help but smile and look away, down to his cup of coffee, which reflected his face in its surface. He looked older now. The stubble on his jaw had become the beginnings of a beard, and his eyes were harder. He would have to ask Hannibal which animal he resembled now.

The other couple burst into a bout of raucous laughter, and Will looked over Hannibal’s shoulder toward them again. Hannibal’s gaze followed surreptitiously, and he shook his head, murmuring, “To be so carefree. One of the many blessings of youth. Although some might call it a curse.”

Something almost like sorrow seemed to flit across Hannibal’s face, there and gone in a moment that Will might have missed if he didn’t spend so much of his time staring at Hannibal and trying to commit everything about the man to memory. Frowning, Will reached out to brush his fingertips across the back of Hannibal’s hand, and when the foreigner looked back to him, head cocked in apparent confusion, Will asked, his voice very low and gentle, “Why were you exiled?”

Another flicker crossed Hannibal’s face, but this time Will had no name for its emotion.

“Will,” Hannibal said with an edge of warning. Will did not respond, just held Hannibal’s eyes and begged to know. Perhaps it was not the place to ask, but it was the time. Hannibal sighed and, after a long moment, began to explain: “There was a fable my aunt used to tell me, of the fox in the garden. The fox had his den in the center of the garden, and he had been there for his entire life—much longer than any of the other creatures in the garden. During a particularly difficult winter, the fox allowed all the other creatures into his den in order to survive, and soon the others were no longer afraid of him, even though he had very big teeth and was larger than all of them. And when the spring came, all the creatures felt so confident in their survival abilities, ignoring all the fox had done for them, that they decided to make their own garden in the place of the old one. The fox insisted it was a poor decision, to erase all the beauty and tradition of his garden, but they didn’t care what the fox had to say. Because the fox’s den was at the center of the garden, all the other creatures decided to rush into the den and try to destroy it so the fox would leave.”

Will, whose attention was rapt as he tried to translate the allegory, broke in to say, “But why did you leave? If it was your…garden?”

Hannibal chuckled and said, “The fox certainly didn’t want to leave, nor intended to leave. In fact, as all the other creatures stormed the fox’s den, the fox gobbled them all up, as a reminder of how sharp his teeth were and how big his belly. The other creatures realized how dangerous the fox was, but instead of giving up the fantasy of independence, they went and told the old man who lived in the house next to the garden about the evil fox who had eaten all their friends. The old man brought together his pack of hunting dogs—ferocious foxhounds that were even bigger than the fox—and sent them after him.”

Sucking in a deep breath, Will shivered hard.

“Now,” Hannibal said as an aside, “not every creature in the garden decided to revolt against the fox. In fact, the fox had several good friends, creatures that helped to keep his den in good repair, and creatures that kept him company when there were no other foxes around. But as the foxhounds came, one very clever dog bribed one of the fox’s friends into revealing the fox’s daily schedule so the pack could hunt him without destroying the den, which was very beautiful and could house many of the creatures in the new garden. But one spy felt guilty and told the fox what she had done. But the fox, enraged by her betrayal, gobbled up the spy, too. With his belly full, the fox ran through the woods and the rivers, where the foxhounds could not follow his scent, to a nearby garden, where an old fox friend had a den and where there was another evil creature gobbling up all the wayward creatures.”

“Bedelia. And the Axeman.” Will said simply. The other couple stood from their table then, arm in arm, and stepped out into the autumn chill, leaving Will and Hannibal alone in the cafe. The woman who had served them had long since disappeared into the kitchen, and Will stroked Hannibal’s hand again.

Hannibal nodded. “And the fox cannot return to his own den until all the creatures in the new garden have forgotten him, or until the fox has a skulk of his own to reclaim his garden by force.”

Night had fallen on All Hallows’ Eve, and Will sat alone in the pirogue, floating on still, black water. The usual sounds of the bayou were muted, somber in a way that was better suited to Catholics and the city where they mourned. Above everything else, he heard his own heart beating in his ears. Steady, low thudding. It almost sounded like Hannibal’s.

With a sigh, Will tried to ignore the curl of guilt that rose in him and wrapped around his ribs like weedy vines.

Under him were the corpses of all the innocent people he had put there. Nearly a dozen now. With the exception of the hunters, none of his victims knew each other. And with the exception of Abigail, none of them knew Will. He should have felt protected by these truths, and by the strong arms that held him close and kept him a great distance from Jack Crawford, and by Bedelia’s knowing, silent, and red-glossed smile. He should have felt secure in this new reality. He shouldn’t have had the recurrent fantasy of walking into the police station on Basin Street and solving the mystery once and for all. Or, at the very least, of simplifying it.

And yet, it came back to him time and again, whenever he was alone as he was now.

The guilt, then, had two sharp edges, like an arrowhead or a barbed fish hook. Coming from the right side was pressure from a society that Will had only just joined, and from the left, pressure from a promise to a lover. He would bleed either way, he thought with a shiver. Pulling the white crocheted blanket around his shoulders, glad he had brought it with him from the cabin, Will stared out into the bayou night and its steadfast trunks of cypress and black gum trees.

“Oh, Pa,” Will murmured, wrapping his arms around himself to keep warm in the late-autumn chill. He could almost hear a whistle in the wind or a gurgle under the surface of the black water that might have sounded like his father. “He confuses me to no end.”

It was then, on the edge of the water, Will noticed a rustling of leaves that revealed a late-born fawn. Pinpricks of white dotted an even coat, and too-big ears shifted to pick up the sounds of the bayou. The fawn noticed him only after several long moments, and they stared at each other for a brief eternity before the fawn turned and bounded off into the darkness. Something like regret twisted in Will’s stomach, knowing it would not survive the winter.

Will sat on the steps leading from Dr. Du Maurier’s Medicines up to Bedelia’s apartment, behind the vine-threaded chain that blocked it from customers, looking over the shop from above. He sorted bundles of ingredients by type and origin, while Bedelia in the office worked behind her screen to blend her cures. Hannibal, as elegant and self-possessed as ever, stood behind the shop’s counter, flipping through the pages of an old book and sipping from a glass of deep red wine.

They worked in silence—but for the phonograph in the office—and it was comfortable. Will was almost convinced that they could go on like this forever, as a strange sort of family or, barring that, at least as friends.

It had been an uneventful morning, as most of the city was still with their dead or their priest, but over the hours there had been two customers, both of whom it was up to Will to serve. Confident now in how the shop was organized, he had no trouble except in speaking to strangers, which he could do only if he did not meet their eyes. But both had left with what they needed, and that would have to be enough.

So, when the heavy red door opened in the late afternoon, Will certainly did not expect the detective who came in, frowning and determined to some end. Only the vaguest of formalities passed between them before Jack Crawford turned to Hannibal, pulled out his notepad, and said, “I have a few questions, Mr. Lecter.”

“Doctor,” Will corrected out of instinct alone. The corner of Hannibal’s mouth quirked up in an almost smile that might have been invisible to anyone but Will.

Jack’s frown deepened and he went on to say, “How long have you been in New Orleans?”

Hannibal sipped his wine calmly and said, “About four months.”

The detective flipped through and consulted pages of his notepad. Will had no idea what might have been written in that book, and part of him never wanted to know. The rest, however, was desperate to see how close Jack was to the truth.

“And what is your purpose here? You have not filed a declaration of intention to become a citizen of this country. You have not paid taxes on any residence. You have no legally recognized employer. And four months is a very long time for a visitor to stay.” There was an accusation in the detective’s voice, even if he said nothing quite so direct , and it set a sour fear into Will’s gut. His hands began to shake as he tried to continue sorting herbs and oils.

Still the paragon of calm, Hannibal nodded and said, “Yes, I agree. However, I am not simply a visitor. I am a patient of Dr. Du Maurier’s, and she has insisted I remain in New Orleans until my health has improved.”

Will frowned, and Jack Crawford wasted no time in pressing on this new revelation. “What is the nature of your illness, Dr. Lecter? And, if you are a doctor yourself, surely you know other doctors capable of treating you. Why Dr. Du Maurier?”

Hannibal swirled his wine glass, and Will could see the beginnings of irritation in the man’s broad shoulders, but his voice was steady as he said, “I am afraid that is a private matter, Detective. However, suffice it to say that Dr. Du Maurier’s specialty is quite rare in these times. Most in the profession, myself included, have turned to more unnatural methods. It helps that I have known Bedelia for many years, and I trust her capabilities implicitly.”

“Is Dr. Du Maurier here?”

Will tried to swallow down the panic that threatened at the back of his throat like vomit. He could taste it, acrid and sour like strong whiskey but with a less pleasant result. His body thrummed with pent-up energy, and his knee began to bounce incessantly just to release some of the tension. He was useless now in his sorting, so he just watched as Hannibal led the detective into the office and then emerged alone a moment later.

Still carrying his wine glass, Hannibal came close to the stairs and stepped over the vine-threaded chain with a never-ending grace to stand beside Will, looming large over him. The foreigner passed the glass to him and said, “This should help calm your nerves.” With unsteady fingers, Will took the offering and drank what was left in one gulp. A warm, heavy hand settled in his hair, stroking his scalp under the wild dark curls, and Hannibal said, voice low but firm, “Calm yourself, Will.”

“How can I?” Will whispered with a desperate, helpless edge. He looked up at Hannibal, whose sharp jaw and thin lips tensed. Will pressed into the hand at his head and swallowed heavily, his breath coming out in a shudder. “He’s going to find out, Hannibal. Perhaps it’s best if we just turn ourselves—”

Will yelped rather than finished the thought as Hannibal gripped his hair tight enough to burn and said, with a dangerous warning in voice and alligator eyes, “The native man will face harsher consequences than the foreigner. They’ll want me gone, but they’ll want you dead.” A shiver ran down Will’s spine as Hannibal released his hair and ghosted fingers down to the nape of Will’s neck.

It was then that Jack Crawford emerged from the office, with a concerned Bedelia close behind him. Will’s stomach dropped, and his entire body went rigid. Just as Will was about to stand and preempt the accusation he knew would come from the detective’s lips, Jack said something Will had never expected.

“Well, Dr. Lecter, I wish you the best in your recovery. As always, if anyone becomes privy to any information that could lead to the arrest of the Axeman or Axemen, he is kindly asked to bring that information to the police station on Basin Street. We are now offering a $100 reward for useful tips.” And then, with a tip of the hat, the detective was gone, and Will collapsed into himself, unsure whether he felt relief or fear. Certainly he did not feel enough of the alcohol.

Bedelia let out a long breath and shot Hannibal a glare that Will couldn’t quite read but what he thought might have been a collection of debts. She disappeared back into the office but stopped just at the threshold to look over her shoulder and say to the both of them, “Don’t make me do it again.”

Will felt lightheaded, like he might faint or die or float away. He clambered to his feet, knocking over all his sorted piles in the process. Bundles and bottles clattered down the stairs and landed at the base of them, under the iron chain and vivid green vines. Will was about to run—where, he wasn’t sure—but a strong hand wrapped around his arm and stopped him before he had taken two steps. There was a dull ache that would soon bruise, and Hannibal yanked Will back into his chest, wrapping his arms around Will’s trembling body.

Into Will’s ear, Hannibal whispered, voice dark and dangerous and everything that usually thrilled Will but now startled him, “Promise me.”

Ragged breaths were the only things to cross Will’s lips as he allowed himself to be held. Then Hannibal turned him until they were face to face and so close that Will’s instinct told him to reach out for a kiss. But the foreigner moved them along the length of the step, until Will’s back pressed against the bright red wall. Hannibal loomed over him still, hands pressed to the wall on either side of Will’s head, trapping him and blocking out all the light from the rest of the shop. There was a dark edge to those alligator eyes that had never been aimed at Will before.

“Promise me.” It was nearly a growl now, but bounded by elegance and composure and all the things that Will could never properly attain for himself.

Conflict twisted inside him. Arousal, at the closeness of his lover’s body and the power the man held over him. Fear, at the consequences of their crimes and the threat in Hannibal’s eyes. His shoulders tried to press into the wall and escape, but his hips canted forward to brush Hannibal. His right hand of preservation held tightly to a banister so he would not fall down the stairs in his confusion. But his left hand of passion wrapped around Hannibal’s wrist beside his head and felt for the pulse there. It was quick like his own, but stronger. Will bit his lip, wishing he had more wine or whiskey or had no use for either of them at all.

Hannibal pressed closer, and Will couldn’t pull his eyes away from the alligator.

“I can’t.”

As if it were the password to some exclusive club, Hannibal yanked away, cold air flooded Will, and the world moved too quickly. Taking Will by the nape of the neck, Hannibal marched him down the stairs and all but pushed him over the chain barrier. Pausing only briefly to take a handful of sachets from a shelf, Hannibal led Will out of the shop and into the black automobile waiting at the side of the street, and in complete silence drove them toward the bayou.

Will sat on the edge of his bed in silence as Hannibal brewed a strong tea of the sachets he had taken from Bedelia’s shop. His heart raced his mind, until both were moving so quickly Will couldn’t focus on either. Then, as his thoughts were about to fly away for good, a blistering steel mug was thrust into his hands and the firm command came to, “Drink.”

He did, slowly at first, for the tea burned his tongue and tasted bitter like nothing else Will had ever consumed before, somehow even more bitter than blood or bile. Between sips, Will looked to Hannibal, whose tense expression was, notably, missing anger. Perhaps the foreigner was incapable of anger, Will thought mindlessly as he drank more of the harsh tea. His stomach began to complain, and his thoughts then turned to wondering whether he might vomit.

Kneeling in front of where Will sat on the bed, Hannibal rested his hands on Will’s thighs and said, voice more gentle than his expression, “Take what remains of the day to think. When I return, you can tell me your decision. Either promise me that I can trust you, or go to Jack Crawford and turn us in. If you choose the latter, I will freely accept your judgment.”

“Hannibal—”

“It is your decision to make, Will.”

Will drank more of the tea, swallowing it down as quickly as he could and trying to imagine it was whiskey. Confusion clouded his mind, more and more with each passing moment. “Hannibal, I don’t understand,” he murmured. Even to his own ears, his words sounded gnarled like vines. Eyes blown wide, he searched Hannibal’s eyes for help, but there was none to be found. Just a soft smile, a kiss on the forehead, and a flutter in Will’s chest that he was sure came from monarch butterflies back too early from their journey to the mountain.

It seemed as if, within a single blink, Hannibal was gone. Will’s breaths caught in his throat, and he scrambled around on the bed, looking for his lover. All he found were glistening alligator hides rising from the holes in the crocheted blanket. He yelped and jumped off the bed, looking around wildly for something to focus on.

Winston, sitting on his threadbare rug in the corner, gave a quiet whimper, and Will stared at the dog’s mottled coat, which seemed to melt into the wooden floorboards, leaving behind only an articulated skeleton whose head tilted curiously to one side. A strangled scream wrenched from his throat, and the cabin twisted around him, until he fell and hit his head on the hard floor. With his entire body escaping his control, Will struggled to crawl away from what was left of Winston, toward the door, which itself seemed to warp in the fading sunlight.

By the time Will made it out onto the porch to lie in a puddle of sticky blood that seemed to wrap around him like vines and cover his entire body, twilight had come and passed. Hannibal had yet to return, although Will could hear his voice in the wind, singing a familiar song and demanding promises. The blood that covered Will began to move and itch, and when he looked down at his hands, they were covered in spiders and leeches and mosquitoes the size of catfish. He shook his hands hard, and the bugs dissolved into soot and smoke, except for the orange and black butterflies that were underneath all the others. They stayed on his skin until they sank into his flesh. A thousand tiny butterfly wings emerging from his arms beat desperately, and Will realized he was a monarch.

He stepped off the porch, and falling felt like flying.

There was no telling how long Will had been consumed by madness. Days, certainly, or perhaps it only seemed to him that the sun and moon were coexisting in the sky at all times, and that the stars were dancing for him and singing and shifting into constellations of Hannibal’s face.

Everything was real, more real than the mud under his feet and more real than the frogs and crickets and owls. Knives replaced leaves on the cypress trees, and their blackened roots came alive, becoming snakes before Will’s eyes, and he was more sure of their truth than anything else he had ever experienced. Panic soon dissolved into vapid curiosity, tinged with some underlying anxiety that powered everything in this new, unexplored world.

“Will,” said his father, who waded out of the bayou wearing his best clothes. Will smiled brightly and bounded forward to wrap his arms around his father, whose form was warm and thrumming with life. Except what felt like a thrumming life transformed into the steady ticking of a timepiece, and as Will pulled away, his father held out the silver pocket watch that he had given to Hannibal. The silver butterfly flapped its wings, and Will reached out to give the monarch a perch. He raised his finger and the silver butterfly that now rested on it to his face, and he was amazed and thrilled to see antlers sprout from the insect’s head, until the monarch was a monarch on a monarch. Will laughed, happy and free, and the butterfly floated in front of his face before flying into Will’s mouth and dissolving into metamorphic goo that tasted like blood and whiskey and Hannibal’s kisses.

When Will looked to his father again, there was no one but a mirror of himself who wore his father’s clothes and spoke with his father’s voice.

“You’ve gotten big, son. Good diet. Nice clothes. Need a shave and a haircut.”

Will laughed again as he unmoored the pirogue and jumped into it. Gesturing for his father to join him, Will said, “It’s Hannibal. You would love him, Pa. He’s everything we’re not.”

The boat floated as if on still water, but Will could see fierce whirlpools sinking into the bayou, turning black water white with froth. Alligators and catfish floated into the air from the center of the whirlpools, and Will watched in fascination as the animals who usually hid in the murk rose like the fog. And then, as his father shifted the pirogue, the whirlpools turned in reverse and sucked all the escaping creatures back into the bayou with a violent splash.

Will realized his father was speaking, but the words were unfamiliar and foreign. They lilted and curled around themselves and sent shivers down Will’s spine. His father’s face—more accurately, Will’s own face—then rippled like water and as the flesh settled again, it was Hannibal’s face that remained. He spoke in Lithuanian, and with every word, Will understood more and more. When he replied, meaning to ask Hannibal what was happening, what all of this was, what came out instead was gibberish, some creole of no origin, which was visible in the air between them and resembled a hazy thunderstorm. As the words hit Hannibal, they destroyed him like buckshot, shattering off pieces of his face until once again Will’s father remained.

“You must love him,” his father said then. Will froze, and for a brief moment, everything went completely still, including his heart in his chest. What small breeze had gone through the branches of the trees disappeared, and in the paralysis of the world, colors were too vivid and shifting like kerosene on black water. When finally Will could breathe again, and finally the life returned to the bayou, his father said, “I never thought I’d see it, son.”

And then his father fell to bloody pieces in the bottom of the boat, and Will screamed, rocking the boat as he tried to throw the chunks over the side of the pirogue and in the process falling into the bayou himself. Sucking in desperate breaths and getting murky water instead of air, Will thrashed around and clawed for purchase until his fingers shattered and the skin peeled back. He swallowed water until he felt sick, and soon his vision, clouded by the stormy, muddy water, went dark. He came face to face with an alligator and, as the beast opened its mouth, Will saw beyond the rows of sharp teeth a castle haloed by stars, and he swam to it with his lungs burning.

Will woke up with a gasp, laying in the bottom of the pirogue, with the late autumn sun cutting through the tree canopy to dapple his face. He sat up and his clothes crunched, dried through with sweat. Rainbow shimmers covered the entire bayou, and he rubbed the sleep from his eyes. After blinking several times, Will made eye contact with a monarch stag who grazed on dying shrubs on the bank of the bayou, close to the far cabin.

Beauty overwhelmed Will, and he could do nothing but stare in awe at the sprawl rack of antlers. Surely it was the same stag he had saved at the end of the summer. Will saw the recognition in the dark glisten of the stag’s eye, and Will almost wished he had a shotgun.

The stag bent to graze, and Will rowed the pirogue closer. When the stag’s head came up again, its antlers twisted in the shifting light, first into a strange tangle and then into a striking portrait of two faces that Will recognized instantly. The hunters he had eaten stared at him, and then the stag’s mouth opened and it was Abigail’s voice that came from the monster as it said, “Why?”

“What?”

The stag’s sleek coat rippled and a thousand little monarch wings rose from its body, fluttering in time with Will’s breaths. The beast stepped forward, until it was just testing the edge of the water, and Abigail’s voice said, “You enjoyed killing me. My blood on your hands.”

Will rowed closer, reaching out to the stag. “You were sick. Going to die.”

“So are you,” the stag said, except now Abigail’s voice was Jack Crawford’s. “But that is no reason to speed up the process. To do so defies God.”

And then the stag turned and loped off, dissolving into blood and bones and butterfly wings before Will’s eyes. He stared at the spot where the creature had been, breathing hard and turning the words over his mind, and said into the nothingness that seemed then to comprise the entire world, “You were right, Pa.”

Pure exhaustion weighed down Will’s limbs, keeping him in his bed well into the afternoon, when Winston began to bark outside. Groggy and still expecting some grotesque and monstrous creature to enter the cabin, Will was pleasantly surprised to see Hannibal instead, who was wearing a handsome, patterned suit in deep, mossy greens and an amber and red tie. His hair was slicked back and his jaw freshly shaven, and Will thought the foreigner was the most beautiful thing he had ever seen.

“Hello, Will,” Hannibal said with a twinkle in his eyes.

Clearing his throat and fighting his own body to sit up in the bed, Will said, “Is your face going to melt off this time?”

Hannibal smiled and shook his head as he shrugged out of his jacket and held it in the crook of his arm. “No, I should hope not. By now the world should return to normal, if you can recall such a time.”

It should have been a peculiar comment, but Will had found his memory with milkweed holes and fuzzy where it remained, back at least a week but perhaps even further. In fact, he could not recall how he had gone mad, except for a fleeting and foggy recollection of Hannibal’s body close but not close enough, and his usual anxiety threaded throughout. Even most of his madness was lost in a haze that eluded his efforts to grasp again.

“I think I’ve gone mad,” Will mused aimlessly. It was a simple fact to him, that he had gone mad. That Hannibal, in one way or another, had driven him mad.

The foreigner came close, sitting at the edge of the bed and resting a hand first on Will’s forehead before sliding his fingers through Will’s knotted, sweat-dry curls. “Do you remember the question I asked you? Have you made your decision?”

Somehow, in the mess of Will’s mind and memory, he could almost recall a strange whisper in the wind that had spoken to him since his madness had begun, telling him in one ear that Jack Crawford wanted to hear what he had to say, and in the other ear that Hannibal did. And then, in one of the crystal fragments of his memory, a stag with the shifting voice of Abigail or the detective told him not to rush the inevitable.

“Let’s go out on the water,” Hannibal said suddenly after a long silence. “I have some carcasses to dispose of.”

Along with the bodies of three dead townsfolk, a number which surprised even Will, Hannibal had brought with him into the pirogue a kitchen knife that glinted in the sunlight. It was not until the boat was unmoored and drifting out toward the far cabin that Will was surprised by that fact, too. The bodies were already carved for their constituent parts, and that made the knife unnecessary. Unless, of course, it was meant for another body entirely.

A shiver ran down Will’s spine, and Hannibal wrapped his jacket around Will’s bare shoulders, which was only cause for another pleasant shiver. Pulling the heavy wool close to his skin, Will noticed a slight imbalance in the coat’s weight. Reaching into the interior pocket at the left breast, he felt the skin-warm surface of the silver pocket watch. It was some compliment, Will thought, that the trinket moved between suits as Hannibal did, and that it was always with the foreigner. As Will ran his fingers over the pocket watch, he was relieved to feel the butterfly still there, trapped in flight.

Once the bodies had been pushed into the water, and after Will was satisfied that they would not reemerge in a whirlpool or some other horror of fascination, Hannibal asked, “Have you made your decision, Will?”

Will wasn’t sure if it was he who had made any decisions, or if his madness had taken over completely. Without meeting Hannibal’s eyes, Will said, “Do you keep it wound, or is it just a useless charm now?”

“Wound, naturally,” Hannibal said, reaching out to pull Will’s hand from the pocket. Will brought the watch with him. Holding Will’s hands between his own, Hannibal turned the pocket watch over and opened it to reveal the cracked face of a clock. One of Hannibal’s hands came up to cup Will’s jaw, his own thumb moving like the hand of a clock. Phantoms of madness helped Will realize he was the pocket watch, and the cracks were his own, but so too was the clockwork movement.

Hannibal kissed him, and Will dropped the pocket watch with a dull clatter to the bottom of the pirogue as he leaned into the touch. Instantly he was warm, and by instinct of pleasure he pressed up into the kiss, draping his arms around Hannibal’s neck. His dreams were full of moments like these, interspersed with violence and dripping blood.

The wool suit jacket fell from Will’s shoulders as he leaned forward, leaving his torso bare again. He wore only a pair of loose and filthy linen trousers, until Hannibal’s free hand wrapped around his waist and began to push the fabric down his hips. The touch ached like pressure on a blooming bruise, and a shuddering moan escaped Will’s lips as he pulled himself impossibly close to his lover and tried to disappear into his warmth and strength and power. He could feel Hannibal’s skin under his going hot, threatening to melt away or evaporate. The hand at Will’s hip faded, leaving the purpling marks there cold and needing. Will held tighter, mumbling through kisses to beg the foreigner not to leave him.

And then, by what must have been sheer force of will, Hannibal’s flesh went solid again, and Will was sure that he was kissing a god.

Hannibal’s hand returned then to Will’s body, this time to cup his ass and press a strong finger against his entrance. It was slicked with some fragrant oil that Will recognized as Bedelia’s perfume. Perhaps it was a tincture for sale in the shop. The oil was hot on his sensitive skin, and as Hannibal’s finger slipped inside him, the burn spread throughout his entire body.

Letting out a breathless moan, Will let his head fall back and stared up into the canopy of trees and the shards of sunlight that broke through. He felt their warmth dapple his skin, and lips danced down his jaw and neck. Hannibal’s finger crooked just so, and Will gasped in pleasure as another finger added to the burn. Desperate to be closer, Will clambered into Hannibal’s lap, straddling the wool-covered muscles of his legs and pressing his chest into exquisite broadcloth. His fingers dug into the back of Hannibal’s neck, sliding up through soft hair, and Will wrapped his legs around the foreigner’s back, holding him so close his body could never leave him without dissolving into blood and bone and butterflies.

Fingers scissored inside him for a pleasant eternity, and Will’s cock twitched between their stomachs, delighting in the drag of cloth against skin. Under him, he could feel Hannibal’s own erection, and between violent and desperate kisses, Will begged to be filled, to be made whole. Shaking hands began to unbutton Hannibal’s trousers, and Will could barely wait until his lover’s cock came free to raise himself and sink down onto Hannibal’s length, with wool still scratching against his bare and burning skin.

Will rutted against his lover, holding tight and convincing himself of his own reality with every tremble of pleasure and need. Hands stroked up and down his back, tangled in his hair. Will could feel himself melting and molding around Hannibal’s body, never to fit with another for the rest of his life. Blind like a starving monster, Will reached for the large kitchen knife that Hannibal had brought onto the bayou. He found the blade first and sliced into his fingers and palm as he picked up the weapon and pressed it into Hannibal’s hand. His climax was quickly nearing, and desperation swallowed him like an alligator. Smearing blood across pristine white fabric as he wrapped his arms around Hannibal’s neck again, Will murmured into Hannibal’s ear, “I need it.”

The tip of the blade pressed against his side, just enough to draw blood, and in that tiny slice, all the butterflies came free. They left Will’s body in a glistening swarm of ambers and reds and blacks and disappeared into autumn trees. He screamed in some twisted amalgamation of pleasure and pain, and as his release came, Will collapsed into Hannibal’s body and began to drift away in a lightheaded phantom of madness.

Hannibal held him close and set the knife aside. A hand pressed against the wound to control the bleeding. Will’s body did not belong to him in that moment, and he breathed heavily, taking in as much of Hannibal’s syrupy and sultry scent as possible. It was then, as the last butterfly disappeared into the trees and as Will saw a shimmer of movement that he thought might have been a stag, that a deep and abiding hunger made itself known in the very core of his being.

A hand stroked his back in lazy circles as Will returned to himself, suddenly too aware of the pain in his hand and side and of the warmth inside him, slowly dripping from his entrance. Hannibal was still inside him, and Will wished never to leave that moment as he whispered between shuddering breaths, “I love you.”

There was no response at first, but Hannibal’s hand at his back faltered momentarily. It found its rhythm again, and Will let out a low, long sigh of relief. He had never felt so free and safe enveloped in Hannibal’s arms as he did then. What should have been fettering chains were instead a necessary anchor, and Will couldn’t have escaped if he wanted to.

“Have you made your decision, Will?”

Will nodded, half-lidded eyes drifting across the water’s edge, where the far cabin just peeked through the trees. Nothing was out of order in the world, and everything found and fulfilled its own purpose. In that moment, he wasn’t sure if his madness had left him, or if he had become part of it. Both options were as comforting as his lover’s embrace.

“Well?”

Will smiled into Hannibal’s shoulder, and he said, very quietly but now without a moment of hesitation, “I promise.”


	5. A Betrayal

“I told you it would burn,” Bedelia said darkly as Will sucked in a deep breath through his teeth. His injured hand rested palm up on the counter in Dr. Du Maurier’s Medicines, and a creamy salve of savory and oil filled the wounds. Bedelia massaged the salve into the cuts in Will’s fingers with a gentle pressure. The gash across his palm was deeper and much more likely to become infected. The salve was the best Bedelia could offer until Hannibal returned with a needle and thread to suture the skin back together.

Will winced against the pain, which was less pleasant now that Hannibal was not inside him and wrapped around him. Now that his madness had faded into something much more subtle—and perhaps more insidious—the sharp bite of his own decisions cut deeper.

“The bayou came alive,” Will said, trying hard to remember the details of his time lost to madness. “The leaves were butterflies, and animals nothing more than walking skeletons with human voices. It was all so beautiful. I was at the same time terrified and completely at ease.”

With each wistful word, Bedelia’s expression soured more, and once she had wrapped strips of linen around Will’s injured fingers, she took his face between her hands, forcing him to look directly at her. With none of the whimsy Will still felt in glimmers at the edges of his vision, she said, “What happened to you was very dangerous, Will.”

Slightly confused, Will tried to cock his head to the side, but Bedelia held him tight as she demanded to know, “Was Hannibal the one to do this to you?”

“Of course,” Will said without hesitation, as if it should have been obvious. Bedelia seemed to flinch away at the answer, and she dropped her hands from Will’s face as if his skin burned her.

Before she could say anything more, the heavy door to the shop opened and Hannibal entered, carrying a small basket of medical goods in the crook of his arm. Bedelia straightened up until the soft green fabric of her dress pulled across her chest and threatened to rip at the shoulder seams. She glared at Hannibal, whose own pleasant expression contrasted hers, and said, “The salve is antibiotic, but shouldn’t be left in a sutured wound. Be careful when removing it, lest you do any more damage to a very delicate system of tendons and nerves.”

Hannibal smiled and said, “I have rather a bit of experience in surgery, Dr. Du Maurier. If I cannot patch a simple wound of the hand, I should not have my own title.”

Will glanced between them, recognizing the tension there but not quite knowing how to characterize it. Not very long ago, he would have found himself edging on jealousy.

Bedelia huffed and turned on her heel, disappearing into the office and closing the door behind her with a heavy thud. Hannibal’s smile turned to Will, who smiled back out of instinct or love. Anticipation fluttered in his stomach as Hannibal took up his injured hand and inspected it. Will was acutely aware of the fingerprints that dragged against the back of his hand and the strength under warm skin. The dull ache that pulled at the raw, neat edges of his flesh burned brighter as Hannibal used a clean linen cloth to wipe his palm down. Then from the basket came a small amber bottle, a spool of black thread, and a clear jar with several wickedly curved needles—looking almost like fishhooks.

“How much will that hurt?” Will asked as he eyed the needles. With the smile still yet to fade, Hannibal pulled from the basket a bottle of whiskey that was as dark as chicory coffee.

Uncorking the bottle and handing it to Will, Hannibal said, “Less if you drink a fair bit of this.”

A single swig turned into a gulp turned into nearly a quarter of a bottle, and by the time Will set the bottle down on the counter and wiped his lips with the back of his intact hand, he was thoroughly on his way to intoxication. Hannibal watched with a curious glimmer in his alligator eyes, and after a moment, Will moved to offer the liquor to the surgeon as well.

“You’d likely prefer if I didn’t,” Hannibal said with a wink as he took a small wooden dowel from the basket and dipped it into the amber bottle. The wood came away dripping like honey but smelling metallic and sour. Will’s nose twisted, and he hissed as Hannibal used the end of the dowel to scrape out of his wound what remained of the salve Bedelia had applied. The pain, while less acute than it should have been, was certainly still present, and a shiver ran down Will’s spine.

Will swallowed heavily as he watched and felt Hannibal work. He poured the acrid amber tincture onto a cloth and painted it around Will’s palm, letting it drip into the wound and burn, sharp and terrible. Sucking in a breath through his teeth, Will tried to ignore the pain or, if that proved impossible, to pretend it was pleasure. The two so often merged now into the other—it was, after all, how this wound had come to be—but even that was difficult with his mind hazy and fogged with liquor. But soon the disinfectant’s sting faded, and Will could instead focus on steady hands threading a small, curved needle. Hannibal made quick work of the task and then moved to cradle Will’s hand in his own, holding his patient still.

“Breathe deeply, and look away if it helps,” Hannibal said, his voice low and calm and everything Will could ever imagine wanting in a doctor. Nodding, Will took a deep breath, and just as he began to release it, Hannibal hooked the needle under the skin on one side of the wound and brought it back out the other side before moving the needle a hair to the side and repeating the action the other direction. A secure knot was tied at the edge of the wound, and the pressure of the thread being pulled tight made Will’s gut roll. Once the first stitch was complete, Hannibal reached for a small pair of scissors, which nipped the extra thread, and continued on the next.

It was intimate in a most peculiar way, Will realized as he watched Hannibal put his broken pieces back together again where it had been Hannibal to wrench him apart. The pain, he figured, came both ways. As did the pleasure.

Several minutes later—the air colored only by the muffled music from inside Bedelia’s office and Will’s occasional mewls at particularly sharp tugs on the thread—Hannibal finished his work by wrapping Will’s hand in fresh, salve-coated linen.

“Cooking is a bit like surgery, isn’t it?” Will thought aloud, with a veiled note of humor that did not go unnoticed.

Smirking, Hannibal shook his head and said, “Not at all. One has passion, and the other only skill. And usually I have to see my patients again in several weeks.”

Will pressed a warm and dopey kiss to Hannibal’s cheek as he rubbed gently at his mended palm.

The season dissolved into morning frost, and vibrant leaves fell between tendrils of Spanish moss that dripped from cypress branches that were falling bare themselves. As the muddy ground became covered in a rug of rotting leaves and magnolia petals, the newspapers offered coverage of the decisions from the North to remove from the veins of the nation the liquor that ran like blood. Prohibition, the headlines said, would distill the moral spirit of a great and rotten nation. And, in the process, starve the thirst for pleasure.

Will drank his whiskey while he sat in his bed, curled up at Hannibal’s side with the white crocheted blanket pulled up over their legs. The foreigner, although even that epithet was quickly becoming as blurred as the seasons, drank his own preferred moral decay from a wine glass.

“In Aukštaitija, it is much colder at this time of year. Rain threatens to become snow, and the nights stretch into the days.” There was something almost like wistfulness in Hannibal’s voice, although it was tempered by what Will knew was a bitter self-preservation. But Hannibal seemed to enjoy speaking about Lithuania, so Will kept asking for more details. Hannibal’s arm around Will’s waist tightened, pulling him closer against the chill that threatened at the wooden walls of the cabin.

Humming absently, Will let his head rest on Hannibal’s shoulder. His hair—now longer and a wild mess of curls—fell across his face and obscured his view of the cabin he knew so well. Winston laid with a bone on his threadbare red rug, one watchful eye on them but not so bothered to join. Will took a deep breath and closed his eyes, trying to put the pieces of the puzzle that he had collected together into a single image of Hannibal’s ancestral home, which was now devoid of a Lecter and soon to fall into its own ruin. The greens were dustier, grayer, less vivid than in the bayou. There were purples of heathers, and the water was blue rather than black. At the center of the scene was the majestic and looming Castle Lecter in creamy, weathered stone, with its central tower disappearing into a thick fog. Will could nearly see two shadowy figures moving in a single lit window, but even though it was in his own mind, he could not distinguish their faces. He allowed himself to believe that he was one of the phantoms.

“The trees are tall, and the ground is firm, and the carrion crows call to God for their next meal.” There was a pause for a sip of wine. “Sometimes they call to me.”

Will’s belly was full and warm, and the cracks in his hands were stained with rusty dark blood. His wound had healed into a gnarled scar, and the meticulous stitches had been removed with equal care only just before he had slaughtered their dinner. Still the fresh and delicate skin ached and pulled, but its glossy surface repelled the blood that dried around it.

“How does it smell?”

Hannibal’s lips twitched up into an almost smile, and the hand at Will’s hip drew lazy patterns on the skin there. “Like home.”

Bedelia had buried herself in her work as winter threatened at the horizon. As seasonal illnesses spiked, so too would her business. But a side effect of this preparation was a growing distance between them—one that Will felt rather distinctly as he worked in Dr. Du Maurier’s Medicines, often for hours without seeing Bedelia herself even once. Hannibal too had seemed to notice the change, although he said nothing more of it than casual passing comments.

The murders in New Orleans had reached a peak of almost three a week—each blending into the next until the headlines failed to differentiate the victims at all and merely kept a running total. The streets were empty of pedestrians at all times but for three hourlong periods each day: one in the morning for those going to work, once in the evening for those coming home, and once at midday for shopping trips and lunch. It was only in these agreed upon times, when buildings spewed bodies into the streets like blood, that the city felt safe. Occasionally a lonely figure would dart down the roads outside schedule, but otherwise the only motion in the shimmering November sun came from electric streetcars and automobiles.

For the past several weeks, almost as long as Will could remember, Dr. Du Maurier’s Medicines was deserted but for its usual occupants at nearly all times. But something had changed, as if overnight, and now, just before noon, Will had already helped a dozen customers, most of whom lacked the usual anxiety that New Orleans had grown accustomed to. But Will had no time between customers to question it.

Until a familiar customer returned, wearing a dull mauve dress and and a single black ribbon tied in her dark hair. Alana had all but given up hope, and Will couldn’t quite meet her eyes as she asked for something to help her sleep.

“This tincture of chamomile, fish fuddle, and valerian should help,” Will said, slipping over a few of his words as he offered a small amber bottle to Alana. Clearing his throat, which helped none at all, Will continued to say, “Two drops under the tongue half an hour before bed should help relax your body and mind.”

Hannibal observed from behind the counter, sorting the papers that Bedelia usually worked on. Receipts and invoices and inventories. An owner’s job. Will didn’t have time to question that, either.

Alana turned the bottle over in her hands, and suddenly Will saw them dripping in blood, disembodied, and with a phantom pulse at their soft points. Waterlogged and without color. He swallowed and cleared his throat again. Hannibal raised an eyebrow in his direction but said nothing.

“How much for it?” Alana asked, her tone flat. She didn’t seem to notice.

With guilt coursing hot through his veins, Will bit his lip and paused for a moment, until Alana glanced up at him, and her eye sockets were sunken and dripping with Spanish moss and duckweed. His heart skipped a beat, maybe a dozen, and he managed to bite out, “Free. Take it.” He shied away until his back slammed into a shelf and glass bottles rattled against one another. Alana frowned at him, and suddenly she was herself again—as beautiful and tragic as ever.

Hannibal rounded the counter and came up behind him, settling a firm hand at the small of his back, and said to Alana, “What Will means, of course, is that you have suffered a great deal already, and it is all we can possibly do to help ease your suffering however we may.”

Of course it did not escape Will that it had in fact been them to cause such suffering in the first place. He said nothing to that effect but bit his tongue to bleeding instead.

Alana nodded and slipped the bottle into the small bag hanging limply from the crook of her arm, muttering quiet thanks before saying, “Well, it is some consolation that the Axeman has turned himself in, I suppose. I do hope the justice system finds some morality in our merciless world.”

The words flowed from her lips and over Will as if they were the bayou’s murky water, blinding him as panic chilled his blood like a November frost.

The hand at his back gripped at the material of his shirt, and Hannibal stepped forward then, edging himself between Will and Alana. “Oh, certainly. It is only right in the world for the alligator who ate the catfish to be eaten by the hunter.” There was a sharp humor in his low voice, and Will felt faint, as if he might collapse then and there. Glancing over to the counter, where the corner of a well hidden newspaper peeked out from under a stack of receipts and invoices and inventories, Will reached out to hold onto the thick wool of Hannibal’s jacket, holding himself upright.

Alana thanked them again and drifted out of the shop like a ghost.

At that point, Will did collapse. Or, he would have, if strong, steady arms weren’t there to catch him first. Pressing his face into the patterned fabric of Hannibal’s shirt, Will breathed in his lover’s scent deeply, as if the man were smelling salts or liquor. Certainly he was just as addicting. Clutching tight to the wide lapels of Hannibal’s suit jacket, Will said, “We have to stop.”

“Will—”

“No, we must. You came to New Orleans because you had cover. We have none now.” His voice shook, but his resolve was strong. He steadied himself on his legs and reached up to hold Hannibal’s clean-shaven jaw between his palms. “Hannibal, if you care at all about me, about our—” Oh, how very close he came to saying their love, although he was not sure there was any at all. At the very least, there was _his_ love, and perhaps that would have been enough.

Hannibal’s alligator eyes narrowed, and he shook his head slightly, just enough to loosen Will’s grip. “We have time yet,” the foreigner said, his accent sounding harsher and unfamiliar now, despite the way it usually bled glossy over the jagged words. “A few more forgotten lives that, when their bodies are found a week or a month from now, no one will remember when exactly they ceased to exist.”

Looking away, over Hannibal’s shoulder and to the door behind which Bedelia hid, Will felt his stomach clench, but he said nothing. He could only weakly return the hot kiss that then pressed to his lips.

In fact Hannibal must not have cared, for in the back of his glossy black automobile was a tarp lining to keep bloody cuts of meat from staining the gray carpet. The meat was cold to the touch, and Will shifted his weight from foot to foot on the winter-firm earth at the edge of the bayou, where the road ended and where Hannibal’s automobile could often be found, if anyone was clever enough to look.

Will felt his gut chill, although his anger and fierce, unbridled love—something nearing obsession if it had not already passed that mark—raged in his chest, bounded only by ribs of stag antlers and skin of butterfly wings, all tougher than they seemed.

Hannibal prepared a meal as delicious as ever, and Will drank entirely too much whiskey as his stomach struggled against the lives he knew would follow them into the bayou. As he ate, he contemplated the many possible eventualities of their hunger. None that he could see would end well unless they stopped immediately, disappeared back into the texture of the world without hesitation, and allowed all of New Orleans to believe that the terror was over.

“Hannibal, can’t you see the danger to keep—”

“Let’s not ruin a perfectly delicious meal with such dramatic and distasteful conversation,” Hannibal said, his low voice with a sharp edge, as he stabbed a cut of meat—thigh, heart, liver, they all faded together now—with his fork.

“Dramatic?” Will pressed, not satisfied to be pushed aside in favor of nameless flesh whose only purpose was to sate a deep, primal hunger. At the very least, Will had a name. His brow furrowed, and he set the glass of whiskey down, feeling the alcohol run happy through his veins. “It’s not _dramatic_ , Hannibal. Do you really think Jack Crawford will let more murders slip into the water just because the Axeman surrendered himself?”

His words were looser now, eased on their way by the spiced, smoked, and addictive notes of rye whiskey and familiarity.

A glare that could wither even the hardiest ferns met his newfound rebelliousness, and a faint scratching came at the door, accompanied by Winston’s muffled whine.

“Only if you aren’t foolhardy and lead the foxhounds across field and sea to their game,” Hannibal said darkly as he stood to let the dog in. It took a few moments of drunken confusion before the fable returned to Will’s mind and the threat sank in. He shivered as a cold, curious nose pressed against his leg.

It was a cold, rainy afternoon when Will managed to catch Bedelia alone in her apartment, as she rummaged through boxes for empty vials in which to sell her tinctures and oils.

“Bedelia,” he said, breaking the easy silence of her space.

The apothecary startled, and with her blonde hair falling into her face, she turned to look at him, pressing a hand to her chest as if to calm her beating heart. “Will!” she said, leaning back against the table on which her boxes of inventory sat. “You frightened me.”

Will apologized awkwardly, fiddling with his hands and looking anywhere except at the woman who had become somewhat of a friend over the past months. He shifted his weight from one foot to the other, wondering how to ask for the advice he needed. Certainly he didn’t need to censor the details, for Bedelia already knew entirely too much, but still he could not bring himself to blurt it out with casual ease. Nor was he as talented with metaphors as Hannibal was.

“Is something the matter?” Bedelia asked after a few aborted attempts from Will at presenting a question. She frowned, crossing her arms over her chest, and said, presumptive but correct, “With Hannibal?”

Nodding, Will said, “I love him.”

“Yes, I know.”

He let out a floundering, forced laugh, rubbing at the scruff of his jaw with one hand. “He’s going to get us killed, and I can’t talk him out of it—I’ve tried.” He spoke quietly, knowing Hannibal was just downstairs, helping a customer look for something to ease her developing cough.

Bedelia’s frown deepened, her painted lips drawing tight. Her eyes darted across Will’s face as if he were a newspaper headline. After a long moment, she sighed and said, “Perhaps you should pay a visit to Detective Crawford.” Before Will could protest, Bedelia said, “If you’d rather not break the fantasy, an anonymous note would likely do.”

Shaking his head vigorously, Will said, “I couldn’t. I promised.”

A short, huffing laugh that was more bitter than anything else came from Bedelia’s pursed lips. “You had no choice, Will” she said, gesturing widely and at nothing in particular. “He’s manipulative. Charming. More dangerous than you could ever imagine. If you had not promised, you would not be standing here in front of me, asking me to tell you what you must already know.”

At once, validation and outrage fought for his attention. Will kept shaking his head, as if doing so might help clear it, but even then he was left conflicted.

“Hannibal has an attitude towards love that favors abandonment in the face of trouble. His family, his estate, his nation. Soon, I fear, it will be you.” Will shivered in the cool, early winter air that came in gusts through an ajar window. Bedelia sighed and picked up a handful of empty amber vials as she said, “Already you have become so much like him—and he so much like you. Perhaps your best chance at survival in this case is to take another piece of inspiration from him.”

And then she brushed past him on her way back down the steps to her shop. Left alone in Bedelia’s apartment, Will stepped up to the open window and shut it. Outside, glittering under the cold rain, was Hannibal’s automobile, which could take the foreigner away forever in a way Will never could go. To do so would make a true foreigner of himself. Shaking his head again, Will found that this time, the confusion did begin to clear.

He found paper and a pen not far from the stash of empty bottles and sachets, and began to scrawl a vague but damning letter to Detective Jack Crawford, addressed to the police station on Basin Street.

“Axeman reveals all! It’s an early Christmas miracle! New Orleans safe again! Read it all! Only a quarter!” The newsboy’s voice was hoarse now as he waved about the evening edition of the Tribune. The rain had slowed to a drizzle, and the newsboy’s cap dripped pitifully as he repeated the headlines over and over.

Hannibal had excused himself to the grocer to pick up the ingredients for the evening’s meal, which left Will just enough time to slip out into the street, a dollar in hand, and sidle up next to the young newsboy.

“Axeman reveals all! It’s an early Christmas miracle! New Orleans safe—”

“I’ll give you a dollar to deliver a letter to the police office at Basin Street. To Detective Crawford,” Will said quietly, although his voice seemed louder once the newsboy stopped mid-headline to listen to him. “It’s very important that you don’t tell anyone where you got it. Can you do that for me?”

The newsboy frowned, suspicious of a bayou creature, but when he saw the money in Will’s hand, he nodded and said, “Yes, sir, that’s no problem. On my way home anyhow.”

“Thank you,” Will said awkwardly, handing the letter and dollar bill over to the boy, who pocketed the money and then the parcel. “Don’t read it. Don’t let anyone but Detective Crawford read it.”

“Absolutely, sir! And perhaps you’d like a newspaper? The Axeman reveals all! It’s an early Christmas miracle! New Orleans is safe again! And it’s only a quarter for this exclusive edition!”

Will shook his head, turned his back, and returned to Dr. Du Maurier’s Medicines to await Hannibal’s return.

Will felt no relief as he sat at the table in his cabin, watching Hannibal chop through vegetables and fillet cuts of fresh, dark meat. Instead, his entire body thrummed with anxiety—which did not go unnoticed by lover or dog, who sat at attention beside him, head in his lap and staring at him with an intense adoration.

“Are you feeling sick? Perhaps the weather has caught up with you,” Hannibal suggested with a terrible casualness as he arranged a selection of greens around what was meant to resemble a tenderloin but almost certainly was not. Will shook his head, pulling his knees up into his chest and wrapping one arm around his legs, leaving the other to dangle and scratch mindlessly behind Winston’s ears. In truth he did feel a bit sick—the sour promise of vomit seemed to linger at the back of his throat, and he was sweating despite the chill in the air—but not from the weather. That much he knew.

It felt almost like he was holding a loaded shotgun to his gut, cocked and about to explode at any moment.

“No?” Hannibal prodded.

Will shook his head again and said, “A lingering madness, is all.”

There came no response to that.

So he drank. And drank. And drank, until his vision swam, and Hannibal’s handsome features seemed safe again. By that time, Winston had begged to go out and their meal had come and gone, with idle talk that avoided any mention of the Axeman, or the murders, or their relationship as a whole. If he had not been so deep into his bottle of rye whiskey, perhaps Will would have been startled by the awkwardness that seemed to return so suddenly to their rapport.

Dusk had fallen and twilight was nearing as they curled up in each other’s arms, sitting at the head of the bed and simply enjoying the presence of the other. Anxiety had slipped into syrupy, drunken affection. Nuzzling into Hannibal’s chest, Will hummed his lazy song and danced his fingertips along the edge of Hannibal’s collar. He could feel his lover’s pulse under his skin, and the life there excited him. Terrified him. Mostly sent a shiver of arousal through him, and Will pressed up to kiss Hannibal then, tasting the lips he loved, masked by the sweet burn of alcohol and desperation.

Soon Will was bent up between Hannibal’s legs and the woolen trousers that pulled at his thighs, kissing down the length of the foreigner’s cock and brushing gentle fingers over the rises and falls of his hip and thigh. Occasionally, phantoms of madness would cloud his mind, and Hannibal’s pale skin would appear as scales or butterfly wings. When Will took Hannibal in his mouth, the weight and heat and flavor of his lover on his tongue convinced him of dark fantasies of castles and bodies and love or something very near it. Or at least, of finding themselves as close as they did now, but without the fears that haunted him.

Strong fingers slid through Will’s curls, gripping hard, and Will gasped. The vibrations seemed to run up through Hannibal, who let out a low, wicked moan and pushed Will’s head down so quickly he nearly gagged. His fingernails dug deep into Hannibal’s hips, drawing blood, and for some reason that was not inexplicable but that Will did not want explained, the first sight of his lover’s blood mesmerized him.

His eyes held steady on the trickle of dark blood as he sucked Hannibal’s cock with a heady enthusiasm where he lacked expertise. The noises coming from Hannibal’s lips encouraged Will as much as the instinct that drove him to rut against the blanket on the bed and reach between his legs to palm his own arousal. Suddenly the cock on his tongue tasted acutely of blood. Will jerked back to see if he had bitten or maimed his lover, but he found only a handsome, hard, and twitching cock that glistened with saliva in the low light of the kerosene lamps that dotted around the cabin.

“Will?” Hannibal murmured, his voice husky and with a shimmer of confusion that Will did not think he had ever heard before. It made the foreigner nearly more…human.

“I thought,” Will said, barely a whisper, as he reached up to wipe at his tongue; his fingers came back clean, and he had to attribute even the most visceral of sensations to the madness that Hannibal had thrust him into. “I thought,” he repeated, helplessly, as Hannibal raised a hand to cup Will’s cheek with a gentleness that astounded and bewitched.

Will searched Hannibal’s eyes for several long moments in which his arousal did not waver even once. What he saw set a deep regret into his heart that could not be felt at its full force for Will’s shifting intoxication.

There was an openness in his lover that shattered the wall to separate native and foreign, and Will seemed to see Hannibal for the very first time in that brief, timeless exchange. Where once there had been some innate difference between them, now there was none. Will wasn’t sure if it was madness or love that twisted Hannibal’s face until it was Will’s own, staring back at him with all the awe and trance he felt within himself.

Fingers carded through his hair and—overwhelmed by an experience nearing death—Will bent again, this time to lap up the blood that ran down Hannibal’s hip and, in the process, externalize the only bittersweet flavor that could manage to cut through the whiskey. It seemed to coat his tongue like an immovable film, and it caused his sanity to waver gently, like autumn leaves in a strong breeze or the surface of otherwise still water as a pirogue drifted through. Sealing his lips around the shallow, half moon cuts from sharp fingernails, Will sucked hard, until the skin pinked and bruised, leaving his lover marked and damned.

Hannibal moaned, bucking his hips up into Will’s face, and only then did Will pull back, breathing heavily and with confessions about to fall from his lips.

“How does it taste?” Hannibal asked, his voice dark and rough and too native, as if his accent itself faded into madness and twisted through the warm air between them to curl around Will and taunt him. He relinquished himself to its tender caresses, begging them to take him away so he would not have to see the consequences of his actions.

Will licked his lips, tasting sugar and salt both, and said, “Like you.”

A flicker of something soft and affectionate crossed alligator eyes that seemed to shift like butterfly wings in the dim kerosene light. Like a catfish caught and stunned, Will found himself unable to look away, even as whatever tenderness he had seen within Hannibal shifted back into arousal and need.

He returned his attention to Hannibal’s cock only once his skin felt too tight and his heart too powerful for his fragile ribs. Will swallowed his lover down and devoted himself to Hannibal’s pleasure. Each breath overwhelmed Will’s nose with Hannibal’s scent—pheromones sweet like nectar and sticky like blood—and the need to vomit was replaced with a need to taste his lover’s release deep inside him. Will’s cock twitched in his trousers at the mere thought, and his heady moan was echoed from above, as if it were God’s own pleasure to have blood spilled and lust spurred by instinct or intoxication.

Reaching down to slip one hand under his waistband, Will began to wonder how Hannibal’s more mortal flesh might taste, seared and served with greens picked from around the far cabin. How his blood would dry sticky as it dripped through the wooden slats of the cabin’s porch and mixed with the catfish blood and bayou mud beneath it. His cock, hot and familiar in his grip, twitched pleasantly at the thought.

Even more as he considered how his own blood might disappear into the mix.

He came suddenly, spilling between his fingers onto the white crocheted blanket and moaning long and low around Hannibal, whose own moan sounded at the same time as a sharp knock at the cabin’s door. Will pulled back just enough to panic as he saw dark movement from the window, and in that time, Hannibal’s cock gave one final twitch and came across Will’s face.

Will scrambled backwards, blinded by fear and bitter come, and stared out through the window, seeing figments of a monarch stag’s head through it, with antlers twisting into a bloody and monstrous portrait of the hunters who had made the same mistake.

Another knock came, followed this time by a crisp, deep, and too familiar voice that said, “Mr. Graham, if you’re there, I’d like to speak to you. It’s Detective Jack Crawford.”

Drunken, madness-tinged dread washed over Will, and he froze where he sat splayed awkwardly on the bed. It was Hannibal who jumped to action, clearing his throat as he stood and pulled his trousers back up around his hips, leaving his shirt untucked and wrinkled as it was. All the pleasure had vanished from his face, replaced now with that usual alligator threat that usually thrilled Will as much as it terrified him. Now he only felt fear, for he knew that he had brought this upon them. As he had intended, certainly, but that was a decision that had been made before he had seen the soft flickers across Hannibal’s face that promised something almost like love.

But Will had ruined it, even before there was something to be ruined.

Hannibal shot him a dangerous look, determined and with a shimmer of protective fire, as he crossed the small cabin to the door and opened it to reveal the uniformed and blank-faced detective. A jolt of surprise shook Will, even though he already knew who it would be standing there.

“Ah,” Jack said darkly, looking up and down Will’s disheveled lover, “I thought I might find you here, Dr. Lecter.” It was then that Jack’s gaze slipped over Hannibal’s shoulder and landed on Will, who stared back, open-mouthed and defiled.

Hannibal also glanced over his shoulder, and a flicker of what looked like pride crossed his alligator eyes, sending Will’s chest aflutter with all the world’s butterflies before, one by one, butterfly wings became mosquitos. Will swallowed heavily, reaching up to wipe the come from his face, thankful as Hannibal returned his attention to the detective and said, “Certainly we have committed no crime, at least not as long as we are in the privacy of Will’s home.”

Jack glowered at Hannibal as he pulled from his pocket a folded slip of paper that was entirely too familiar to Will. He wished it to disappear now, but his madness failed and the note remained even as the detective unfolded it and appraised its content again. “Taking your mortal pleasure is no crime—at least in the eyes of the law. Murder, however—of which this note accuses you, Dr. Lecter—is.”

The note was offered to Hannibal, and Will watched with vomit rising in his throat as his lover took the paper and read it over several times before handing it back with a tense restraint that was obvious to Will if not to anyone else in the world.

“It’s an absurd accusation.”

Jack’s grimace deepened, and he said only, “May I come in?”

Hannibal’s shoulders pressed back, and Will could see him on the edge of attack, but the foreigner stepped aside, opening the door for Jack, and said, “Please. I’d be happy to clear any confusion you might have. Obviously you are confused.”

The detective filled more space than he should have, looking like a stag in the small cabin, and Will shifted on the bed until his back pressed against the wooden wall of the cabin. Wrapping the blanket around his hips, he watched in frozen horror as Hannibal offered the detective a seat at the cabin’s table and poured him a glass of Will’s rye whiskey, which Jack took and swirled once before sipping.

“I have reason to believe you are behind at least some of the murders previously ascribed to the Axeman, who has since turned himself in and confessed,” Jack said casually, as if ordering a cup of coffee and a beignet or asking Dr. Du Maurier for a healing tincture. “I have had my suspicions about you, Dr. Lecter, since you first came to our city. But until this note landed on my desk, I had very little on which to base my suspicions, except for a certain instinct that detectives tend to have.”

Hannibal did not drink from his wine glass that still sat from their dinner. He tilted his head to one side and said, “I assure you, Detective Crawford, that instinct is not infallible. The alligator attacks on instinct, but many do not eat as much as they would like.”

“Never mind it, Dr. Lecter,” Jack said with a sour smile pulling at his lips. “Even if I cannot arrest you on suspicion of murder, as soon as the year turns and Prohibition goes into effect, I will arrest you for the very honey with which you have tried to win me.” He gestured with the glass of whiskey.

Will was shaking from the chill that the detective had let in, and from the realization that his mistake was graver than any other he had ever made. Bigger even than allowing Hannibal into his life in the first place.

There was a dry moment before Hannibal said, “I wish you the best of luck, Detective, but you will fall short, as they always do. I have escaped bigger dogs than you.”

“You confess, then? That there is blood on your hands?”

Hannibal laughed, and it was sharp, cutting like a Bowie knife’s blade or a fish hook, and Will flinched back as Hannibal said, “Only the blood of the catfish who sits warm in my stomach. That, I believe we will agree, is no crime. Unless we should all starve for the catfish’s life.”

Jack seemed to consider the suggestion as he drank the whiskey, and Will felt pieces in him begin to crack. Pieces that had withstood every other moment of his life, failing under the pressures of madness, intoxication, and visceral, deadly fear. He bit his lip, tasting Hannibal’s bitter come, until his own blood mixed with it. His body trembled, and he thought he might collapse then and there and be allowed by God to escape it all.

What was at first a short glance over Hannibal’s shoulder turned into the detective’s longer, more serious inspection of Will, and soon Jack said, “Mr. Graham, what do you know of these accusations?”

“He knows nothing,” Hannibal said immediately, his voice dark and dangerous.

“Let the man speak for himself.”

Hannibal moved to stand then, but Jack was faster, crossing to the bed and coming to hover over Will, whose eyes flitted from one twisting floorboard to another, seeing snakes and mosquito larvae in them. Jack didn’t sit on the edge of the bed, although it seemed to be his instinct to do so. Instead he held tightly to his notepad and pencil, staring at a man who did not know how to stare back.

“He knows nothing,” Hannibal repeated, sharper now, as he came up behind the detective, holding the bottle of rye whiskey in his right hand of preservation. Pressing back against the wall and wishing he could dissolve into it like smoke or butterflies, Will swallowed and tried desperately to fight against the panic that was rising in his throat with the acrid burn of vomit. The kerosene lamps seemed to flicker, until the light itself became human in figure, hunting through the darkness and aiming a shotgun at each of the three men in turn.

Will could feel Jack’s eyes on him like rain, turning him manic and muddy. And then when Will managed to meet the detective’s eyes, what stared back at him was an enormous, trembling stag with bloody bones poking from every joint. The stag’s rack—all eighteen points of a monarch’s majesty—formed a patchwork of faces that Will immediately recognized.

Alana, Margot, Abigail, Bedelia.

They laughed and cried and embraced until they all became one, and Will sucked in a deep breath, glancing past the stag to Hannibal, who glared at him and mouthed something that Will was convinced came in Lithuanian, in a creole he could never understand.

“Will?” the stag prompted, tilting its head to the side just enough for its neck to snap.

And so too snapped Will Graham.

Confessions fell from his lips like kisses and moans, and he held nothing sacred then, as his heart pounded in his chest and he clawed at the blanket around him that was no comfort. Half of what he said was incoherent, and the other half so damning that no god could forgive him.

Jack’s face had returned in place of the dying stag, and shock crossed his eyes as Will began to describe Abigail’s blood painted across his skin. Or holding her organs in his palms like a wounded bird. Or sating a deep hunger given to him by a foreigner with her body and a deep hunger given to him by nature with her life. But even that shock was overshadowed by a figure of light with a whiskey bottle, raising a hand high and bringing the glass down over the detective’s head.

Blood mixed with rye whiskey and shards of amber glass, and Jack collapsed onto the bed at Will’s feet.

Will scrambled away, pulling his legs into his chest and holding himself tight as he finally looked up from the detective’s body to his lover, whose fuming rage was for perhaps the first time, directed precisely in Will’s direction. Somehow in the stiff carriage of his shoulders, Hannibal managed to look calm despite the fierce glint of betrayal in his alligator eyes. Will felt cold, drained of all blood and replaced with murky water and regret.

Hannibal came closer, still holding the broken neck of the bottle, and Will jumped out of the bed, darting backwards across the cabin to put space between them—more space than there ever had been. He stumbled into the table and reached desperately behind him for something to hold tight and put his faith in to protect him. He found the large steel kitchen knife that Hannibal preferred, and held it out in front of him in both hands with shaking arms as Hannibal watched him from the bedside. Will’s heaving, shallow breaths were louder than the bayou’s winter music and louder than Hannibal as he said, “Unless you would like to follow Detective Crawford into the bayou, I would suggest staying far away from New Orleans. In fact, it might be best if you never leave this cabin. Do you understand, Will?”

“I love you,” Will said without thinking, and it was the only thing he could manage to say or think or do without collapsing into a pile of blood and bone where he stood.

There was no response, and time seemed to slow and freeze in a winter frosting spell, which was broken with the first magnolias blooming through ice as Hannibal took Jack’s body by the collar and dragged him off the bed and across the floor and out the door. The chill came in even long after Hannibal had disappeared into the bayou’s winter night.

Will could almost feel dried come flake off his face as he made chicory coffee with shaking hands. But when he reached up to scrub away the phantoms of shame, there was nothing left but his skin—rubbed raw now from the anxious and obsessive need to clean himself of all he had done.

He moved with a cold rigidity, afraid he almost might break, and came to sit curled on Winston’s threadbare red rug with a hot mug of chicory coffee steaming under his chin. The comforting scent of chicory did little to calm Will; he stared blankly across the cabin, which for once did not shift and shimmer in madness. Convinced he was too mad even for madness, Will began to hum weakly to himself that sweet song that would be Jack Crawford’s funeral procession along with the quiet winter choirs.

It was sometime in the infinite night, between Will’s third and fourth cups of coffee and just as he considered using the broken shards of the whiskey bottle near the bed to butcher himself and leave himself as one in a long and growing list of Hannibal’s victims—to become one with the bayou the way his father had—when a happy and oblivious Winston came trotting in from the darkness with what appeared to be a whole chicken in his mouth.

“Where’d you get that?” Will asked his dog, his voice cracking sharp over the words. The mutt came close, head tilted curiously to one side, as if to ask why Will was in his spot. With a forced and mirthless laugh, Will crawled away, giving the rug back to his only friend.

The dog plopped down with the chicken and began to chomp with a sloppy disregard for manners or elegance. Will felt his guts turn and writhe inside him, twisting with guilt and too-human emotions that he had no exact names for.

He did love Hannibal, that much Will knew. What else could explain how the foreigner had captivated him? Hunted and snared him so easily. Visited the parts of him that even the native man did not know. And Hannibal must have loved him, too, for Will found himself well and truly abandoned, let go, and withering in the cold without strong, warm arms wrapped around him.

Will of all people could hardly forget that it was a mutual surrender. He hoped the newsboy, like the late born fawn, would find some way to survive the winter and face the spring on the other side.

Between the sixth and seventh cups of chicory coffee, as shivers and anxiety shifted into a fidgety edge, Will went to close the cabin door. He stood staring down the steps into the nighttime darkness for several minutes, listening for any sound. For once, all he heard was a perfect and unnerving silence that was broken only by his uneven breaths. The cabin creaked as he closed the door and shifted his weight from one foot to the other, taking no care to avoid glass shards on his way back to where Winston laid, sleeping without trouble.

To be a dog, Will thought bitterly. To be a god.

All the efforts to memorize Hannibal’s existence came to good use at bad times throughout the night. Whenever Will managed to let his eyes fall closed for even the barest moment, his lover’s handsome, dark face filled his mind. At first how Will had met him, with alligator eyes and a playful smirk. Then as Will had loved him, with moans warping flesh around bone. And then as Will had left him—for Will was convinced of this sequence of events, despite the logistical reality—with violence and virility through every fiber.

Dawn came with the dark bags under Will’s eyes that he could not see but could feel weighing him down.

Hunger rolled through Will’s core, but he could find no energy to sate it with anything but the dregs of chicory coffee. He was out of the root now, and almost out of kerosene. It meant he would have to go back into New Orleans eventually, for knowing those pleasures constituted a sort of starving when he could not have them. The same could be said of Hannibal’s lips, his touch, his quiet lessons in propriety and hunting.

Fatigue masqueraded as madness, and although Will’s vision blurred and struggled to focus on any one moment in time and space, there were no delirious horrors dancing in his periphery. Sitting curled next Winston—who was if nothing else a soft lump of warmth with a steady rhythm of breaths and heartbeats—Will let out a low sigh that might have come from relief. Through the cabin’s windows came the bold and dancing shards of winter sunlight, for truly it felt now that the seasons had shifted. It didn’t matter that the day’s future weather would likely be identical to the day before. Weather alone, Will reaffirmed to himself, did not a season make.

If he went on his pirogue with a rod and line and hook now, it would not be a catfish to haul over the boat’s edge and stamp on the skull. It seemed to him that the catfish would be outnumbered now, scared off by ghosts.

The monarchs would be overwintering on a singular mountain far south, so far that even their collective memories would not recall the bayou’s heavy and wicked fever. Not for the first time, Will wished he were a butterfly, destined to do nothing but follow his kin through ancestral fables and fantasies. In a way, he supposed as he hugged Winston close, perhaps he was. Winston whined before licking at the dried sweat on the skin of Will’s wrist and arm.

And in a way, so was Hannibal.

While one creature flew south, the other north. Will’s breaths shuddered as they crossed his lips, and he found himself transfixed by the sounds of woodpeckers at cypress trunks and herons wading through still, dark water. Slow and lazy dog pants, the silent swish of an alligator’s tail cutting through duckweed and moss. A slight whisper on the wind almost like a funeral song rolling off a foreigner’s tongue. A late born fawn stepping on twigs and alerting the foxhounds.

Then there was the soft creaking of footsteps on wooden steps sticky with blood that was slowly drying or frosting. Will attributed the phantoms of sound to madness, so used now to its power and accepting of its wrath.

But madness had all but faded, and soon a firm knock followed.

Will snapped to attention, every bit of remaining energy sending his pulse into a panic before even his anxiety could not be fed for the fatigue. He stood, his bones sounding like the cabin steps and snapping twigs, and as he stepped across the cabin that now felt impossibly large, Winston trotted up behind him, staying close enough that the tickle of his mottled fur rose bumps on Will’s arms along with the cold.

He didn’t know who to expect as he opened the door. Maybe Hannibal, back to kill him once and for all. It was a possibility that warmed Will from the inside. Maybe a hunter asking to use the far cabin. Maybe Bedelia, whose dress hem would be muddy and heavy.

Will didn’t know who to expect, but whomever he may have expected, that was certainly not whose gray and almost lifeless face appeared before him.

“Detective…” Will’s voice was hoarse and very quiet, fading away into nothing as a weary confusion entered his sluggish mind.

Jack Crawford was dripping wet, and blood ran with the water down his face and into the wool of his uniform, the blue of which looked black when soaked through. A massive, swollen knot rose from his head, and in his eyes was a dull exhaustion greater even than Will’s own. His limbs dangled when he could not manage to hold his usual tight posture, and his lips quivered in silent words before he found his voice, which was now watery and monotonous.

“Might I come in, Mr. Graham?”

Will stepped aside, and Winston perked up as he seemed to recognize the man who headed toward the table, where the bottle of wine was left out from Hannibal’s glass at dinner the night before. Jack poured himself a full glass and collapsed in one of the mismatched chairs. He drank the glass in one long gulp and poured himself another.

Somewhat awkwardly—for what did he know of propriety in situations like this?—Will went to take the stained white crocheted blanket from the bed, collecting it in his arms like a child or a corpse, and carrying it over to the detective. He draped the thin comfort over broad and shivering shoulders. Will knew from Hannibal’s clothed body pressed against his naked one that wet wool was cold to the touch but somehow warm underneath. Still that did not keep Jack from shaking.

With each moment, color returned to the detective’s face, and his grip on the wine glass relaxed until he could bear to set it down on the table.

Will stood in silence several steps away, arms wrapped around himself and staring blankly at the uneven floorboards. Pressed close to his leg was Winston, who nuzzled at Will’s hip until he released the tension in his arms and reached down to pet between the dog’s perked ears. It was some small and familiar comfort, as the rest of the cabin Will had known his entire life became more and more foreign to him.

Jack was first to break the silence. “I imagine we have both suffered tonight at the hands of Dr. Hannibal Lecter. Is that fair to say, Mr. Graham?” He sounded more like himself now, harder and more discerning, but not without the fatigue of a creature that managed to wrench its life from the jaws of a predator by sheer force of will alone.

Nodding, Will said, “I am very sorry, Detective, that you have suffered so much. I am sure it was not his intention to leave you in pain.” In fact, Will thought, it was unlike Hannibal to leave a victim with any chance of life left in them. Certainly he had not shown Will the same mercy.

“He does have a thing or two to learn about humanity, yes.”

Will almost smiled, but otherwise the joke that was not a joke fell flat. Winston became bored and trotted off to his corner to chew on chicken bones.

Jack gestured for Will to sit at the table, as if it were Jack’s home and Will were the guest. Moving slowly, for the adrenaline of the moment was beginning to wane, Will took the chair that Hannibal preferred. The back flared, reminiscent of the armchairs in Bedelia’s office, and the deep, glossy varnish was chipping away from pale cypress wood. Will could almost smell Hannibal sitting there, and his gut churned.

“Naturally I cannot allow Dr. Lecter to escape,” the detective said with a firm edge to his voice before taking another sip from the wine glass. “Or, rather, I cannot allow a murderer to escape. And as I see it, there are two options. The first is to present a strange, impossibly wealthy, and deranged foreigner as the murderer.” Will’s instinct was to jump to Hannibal’s defense, but before he could say anything to that effect, Jack continued with his second option: “Or, I can present a strange, isolated, and deranged man of the bayou, who may be as good as a foreigner to the rest of New Orleans.”

Will swallowed heavily, sitting back in the chair and crossing his arms over his chest.

With a strained and grim smile, Jack said, “Either will work for me, and either will work for the people of New Orleans. They will believe you to be an evil murderer, even if you never took a life of your own volition. But I imagine only one option will work for you, Will.”

Something about the way his name came from the detective’s lips made Will shiver. A threat hidden in the only thing that was truly his. The only thing that could not be taken from him. Even a butterfly dead and flaking away in the wind was still a monarch. Will sighed and reached up to scrub at his beard, which was now past the point of stubble and close to a mask.

“There is another option, of course,” Jack said after a moment. “I could present the both of you. Romantic in a way, I’m sure, but lacking many of the pleasures you and the doctor have become accustomed to.”

Until then, Will’s expression had been mostly blank, but that jab pulled at his brow, and he shot a glare at the detective in warning.

Jack grinned. “There is a way to avoid the third option, Mr. Graham.”

“How?”

“Help me catch Dr. Lecter.”

Will’s jaw clenched tight, and he shook his head once, sharp and decisive. “No. I can’t.”

Sitting back with the wine glass dangling casually from one hand, Jack said, “And why not?”

“I love him.”

The detective took that hook and used it to pull Will out of the bayou and into the bottom of a strange boat, only to stamp his forehead and shock him to death. “It doesn’t seem to me like he loves you, Will. Look how he left you. He would have you rot in prison for him, wouldn’t he?”

“No,” Will mumbled, quietly at first, and then louder as he repeated the denial.

But Jack kept going. “He’s had his fun, used you for his twisted and lawless pleasure. Led you along like a mouse under cat’s paw. Do you think he came to this place to stay forever? No, he always planned to leave eventually. Leave you to clean up his mess.”

Will’s voice was beginning to tremble as he shook his head with a vigor now, trying not to hear what Jack had to say.

“And believe me, Will, someone has to stand for these senseless murders. Alana Bloom’s husband has promised to support me for sheriff in next year’s election if I find her killer. If it’s not Hannibal, it’s you. You’re foolish if you don’t think he knew that when he chose to abandon you to the wolves.”

“Foxhounds.” It was only a murmur, but the detective caught it, and when pressed to continue, Will shook his head again and said, “I don’t know where he is. He never took me. I can’t help.”

Jack raised an eyebrow, finished his glass of wine, and stood. There was a soft wobble in his legs, and the detective gripped tightly to the back of the chair to find his balance before giving Will a tip of his head and its garish, bloody contusion. “I imagine you have a better chance of finding him than anyone else in this city.” Jack cleared his throat and shrugged off the stained white blanket, setting it over the back of the chair. He crossed the cabin over creaking floorboards, dripping blood behind him, and stopped just before the door to look over his shoulder and say, “But I can find you easily.”

Will felt a snarl threaten at his lips.

“The police station on Basin Street, once you find Dr. Lecter. If there’s nothing within the week, expect another visit from me and my men. And don’t think to run—where do you have to go? I have eyes all over this parish. Bring me Lecter, or bring me to him. Simple enough, isn’t it?” And then the detective disappeared into the early morning frost. Will stared after him, wishing on the left hand to run after the man and cover his own hands in a detective’s blood. And on the right hand, to take the escape offered to him. A mercy that was too foreign.

There was nothing simple about it.


	6. A Hunter

The pirogue rocked gently on the water, not with some newfound breeze or current, but with the shaking that came with Will’s sobs. No tears fell, but he gasped for breath and held himself tight, trembling like a dying stag with a spray of buckshot through its side. Except there was no buckshot but for the phantoms of Hannibal’s hands and mouth on him.

“Please, Pa,” Will begged, sounding also like a dying creature whose neck could not manage to support its own head.

There was no reply, from corpse or bayou or madness, and Will sobbed harder, clutching himself so tightly his nails dug deep, bloody furrows into his arms. With all his focus, he stared out over the water, into the trees, into the nothingness, and willed himself to see the shimmering and shifting shapes of stags with a hundred antlers twisting into the many faces of Dr. Hannibal Lecter. Willed himself to feel the shifting of a grinning alligator under the water’s surface, or to hear the funeral songs of woodpeckers and frogs. But none of it came.

His father had taught him to be silent, to fade away into the bayou and become a part of it, like a true native. And for all Will was and allowed himself to be, now he could not help the feeling that native was not how he could describe himself. He knew this place intimately, from childhood summers with mosquito bites and muddy feet to adolescent autumns filled with catfish and butterfly trees. And winters like this one—where through the moss hanging from branches of the cypress trees, like black skeletons rising from the murky water and into the clouded sky—Will could see only a world he did not recognize. One that did not seem to recognize him. He had never gone more than a few miles in any direction from where he sat now, curled up in the bottom of his pirogue like a child, and yet he was some sort of foreigner.

Not like Hannibal. Not a foreigner with a lilting and dangerous accent, or with life experiences that could fill books. Just a stranger, lost in the bayou and looking for any sign to point him in the right direction. He wished for a butterfly second that his father had left him a compass rather than a pocket watch. Hannibal had no need for a compass, and maybe if it had been a compass to begin with, Will wouldn’t have followed the butterflies into the bayou with Hannibal at his heel.

As Will began to row back to his cabin, another sob caught in his throat. He was a foreigner trapped here by command of the only man he had ever properly loved. Will half expected the bayou to protest, to insist that it was his father, not Hannibal, to hold that title. But nothing came, and Will sobbed harder.

What choice did he have? To obey Hannibal and never see him again? Or to take any chance he could, even offered on a detective’s promise, to feel like a native again, wrapped in Hannibal’s arms and protected from the world.

It was an hour after the moon reached its apex in the clouded sky, and Will was out of chicory for his coffee. Of course that was not his only reason for deciding to set off for New Orleans at that moment, but it was the only respectable one.

Winston was still asleep, with only a lazy ear twitching as Will slung his pack over his shoulder and set off. He left his new wing-tipped shoes behind.

The walk that took an hour in the daylight seemed to take half that under the chill of the moon. Occasionally Will would glance up at the sky, looking for that silver body that he imagined as the back of a pocket watch with a butterfly on the obverse. Under his feet, the ground was warm still but littered with the sharp edges of rocks that he had, in the past months, become unused to. They dug into his soft skin, reminding him with each step that he no longer belonged to the bayou.

His chest burned with anxiety and strained breaths as he came to the edge of the city, which was bright still despite the hour. Lights lined the streets and glinted off the surfaces of streetcars and automobiles. Will was convinced that each automobile was Hannibal’s, and that eyes watched him from the balconies. But all the ladies he had seen when first he had come into the city for chicory were asleep, and there was no one in the streets but him.

Alone was what Will knew, but it no longer comforted him the way it once had.

In the nighttime, even the bright and glossy red doors to Dr. Du Maurier’s Medicines, covered in vines apparently unaffected by the season, looked dull and lifeless. Soulless. No music wafted from any of the doors leading up to where Will stood, helpless and hungry, in front of Bedelia’s home. He raised his fists and began to pound at the door, begging for his only friend to hear him from her bed. The banging was muffled but disturbed the city silence, and Will looked up and down the street hoping no one but Bedelia would hear him.

For several minutes he banged on the door, taking only enough of a break to let the aching muscles in his arms rest, and finally Will gave up, turning to press his back against the door and then slide down it to sit in a slump at the entrance of a fox’s den.

He stared up at the moon, pulling his knees to his chest and wrapping his arms around himself. When the bayou canopy was thick, the moon was nothing but a figment of a dream or the occasional shimmer of silvered light. But in the winter, when the world came bare, there it was. Spring was a lifetime away, Will thought, as some strange and calm acceptance settled heavy in his belly. And it was then that the door opened from behind him, and Bedelia’s soft, tired voice asked Will what he was doing there.

Looking up at Bedelia, who for the first time was not immaculately put together with styled hair and glassy red lips, Will said, “I need chicory.”

“Will, it’s Christmas. Do you know what time it is?”

He nodded. “Please.”

Something in her eyes softened, and she stepped aside to let Will in. He scrambled to his feet and entered the shop, which in the darkness looked much smaller. Bedelia closed the door behind him, and Will immediately headed for the chicory. He knew the shop well, not wasting a moment in finding and picking the best root.

Bedelia stood behind the counter, backlit by the golden halo of a desk lamp in her office, and Will noticed the elegant dressing robe she wore. It was a dark green silk and covered in embroidery that must have taken a lifetime to learn and half as long to complete. Motifs of chrysanthemums and herons repeated down the front lapels, and on the belt that tied the robe tight to Bedelia’s waist was a series of eyes, staring out in every direction across the shop. Will stared back at them as he set the root on the counter and pulled up his pack to find the money he had brought with him. At the bottom of the pack were two dollar bills and a handful of coins. All the money he had. The most he had ever had. He set it all on the counter and pushed it to Bedelia, who frowned at him.

“Has Hannibal cut you off?” she asked as she counted his money. Will glanced aside, accidentally seeing the receipt she had already written up, valuing the chicory root at almost twice what he had. But she didn’t ask for more, just collected what he had given her and wrapped up the root in a sheet of brown paper. She looked up at him from under her eyelashes and raised an eyebrow.

Will shook his head, feeling something nearly like embarrassment as he shoved the chicory root into his pack and then wrapped his arms around himself, holding himself together. “Do you know where he is?”

A frown ghosted across Bedelia’s tired features, and she crossed her arms under her breasts, hiding the eyes at her waist. “Will,” she began before pausing and sighing deeply, “I’ve told you everything about him that I can.”

“Please, Bedelia. I need to find him.”

“It’s not my place to say,” the apothecary said with a firm edge to her voice, disappearing into the office to turn off the lamp. When she returned, now a mere shadow in the darkness, Bedelia said, “It’s late. If you’d like to stay the night here you’re welcome to.”

She headed for the staircase without waiting for him, and only after a moment of desperate consideration, Will followed her. The heavy cast iron chain, threaded through with vining plants that were green even in the winter nighttime, did not block the steps as usual. Instead, it was collected on one side in a pile of black iron that seemed to shift like a snake in the periphery of Will’s vision. He shied away as he passed it, darting up the steps behind Bedelia, staring back at the eyes that seemed to fixate on him.

Although Bedelia would not tell him where Hannibal was, the invitation to stay the night in her apartment was a good indication of at least one place where the foreigner was not. Will could not catch even a hint of Hannibal’s scent under the sweet and murky musk of Bedelia’s perfume, which hung like an iron chain over every inch of her apartment. But that did not stop him from looking cautiously around each corner before he rounded it, looking for the alligator eyes to shine in the darkness.

“The loveseat is yours, if you like,” Bedelia said as she pulled an armful of linens from a small hall closet. She carried them across the living room and set them on the small settee. The dark silk of the sheets covered the settee’s elegant and vibrant brocade, and a heavy blanket covered it all. It was woven, without the web-like delicacy of the crocheted blanket Will was used to. Neither was it stained with blood or come or haunting memories.

Will watched in silence as Bedelia laid a pillow at one end of the loveseat. It, too, had eyes throughout the blue and green oriental pattern, but these ones seemed to blink every few moments. Something almost like relief settled warm and solid in Will’s stomach as he recognized his madness for what it was.

“Thank you,” he said, his voice quiet and edging on inaudible, as if speaking too loudly would bring all the eyes in New Orleans to rest on him. Even those alligator eyes that Will both feared and desired. Will couldn’t help but imagine what Hannibal would do to him if he knew Will was there, in New Orleans, looking for him against commandment. And at the same time, he tried to imagine what he would do upon seeing his lover’s handsome face again, upon reaching out to touch Hannibal’s jaw and finding it solid under his fingers rather than a hazy figment of madness or mania.

With pity in her eyes, Bedelia sighed and crossed her arms over her chest again, saying, “Goodnight, Will. Get some rest. You look terrible.”

“Bedelia, please. If you know where Hannibal is, I need to find him,” Will begged, helpless and desperate. “I love him. I need him.”

A pained expression drew at her brow and lips, and she shook her head. A strand of blonde hair fell in her face, but she made no move to fix it. “I’m sorry I failed you,” she said, sounding younger than she was. “This is no place for someone like you, Will. It’s no place for someone like him, either, but at least he can defend himself. You,” she paused, trying to find the right word and giving up as she tapped a long fingernail against her upper arm, “you’re vulnerable. And I should have done more to protect you. I shouldn’t have let him chase you.” She rubbed at her chin, and her lacquered nails caught and threw the light in a hundred different directions.

Confusion clouded Will’s mind at first like a gentle mist and then like the heavy, pounding rain of the summer’s last thunderstorm. He frowned and said, “He told me I wanted him when no one else did.”

“No one wants a monster,” Bedelia said, her voice cracking over the last word. “And especially not one who believes he is God.”

A sudden pang of anger shot through him then, and he said, “ _I_ want him. I love him. You know where he is. Tell me.” His voice was shaking now, growing louder with each word, and desperation made him want to cry and fall to his knees and beg, but all he could do was demand an answer.

Taking a small step backward that made Will want to hunt her, Bedelia let out a long sigh and gave up. “Goodnight, Will.” And then she turned on her heel and disappeared down the hall and into a bedroom. The eyes on the belt of her silk robe glared at him as she left, and Will glared back. Rather than deflate, the righteous anger in him burned hot, building with each moment.

How dare she call him a monster? How dare she say those things about Hannibal—about Will. When it had been Bedelia herself to say they were now so similar.

Will snarled at the eyes on the pillow, snatching it up and throwing it hard against a small side table next to the balcony door. The pillow’s mass slammed into a hatbox that tumbled to the floor with a muffled thud and fell open, spilling loose papers and small trinkets across a beautiful plush rug in reds and cream that looked like it came from another world entirely. His curiosity was split between the rug’s origin—perhaps he could find one like it for Winston—and the contents of the fallen hatbox.

Only once he was sure Bedelia would not return to investigate the sound, Will went to retrieve the pillow and hugged it close to his chest as he knelt on the rug.

The first of the papers he could see in the moonlight coming through the balcony doors was a train ticket from Paris to Vilnius, with a note in Bedelia’s handwriting that the platform had changed from 3 to 7. Will ran his thumb over the ink, and it smeared across the glossy paper and left a stain on his skin. The ticket was validated on July 18, 1902, and Will tried to remember where he was that day. Merely a child, for certain, and likely helping his father to gut catfish or rebuild the rocking chair on the porch, which had a habit of squeaking.

Will found himself smiling gently, staring through the train ticket and seeing beyond it a vague scene of Bedelia, as fashionable as ever, alighting from a train onto a Lithuanian platform and setting off for an old and elegant castle among the hills.

He set the ticket aside and reached for the next of the fallen papers. A letter, in the same ink and handwriting as the note on the ticket, addressed to a ‘dearest Igor’ and dated just over eight years later, that was filled with scratched out errors and regrets. Will realized she must not have sent the letter after all, or else it would be with Igor and likely forgotten forever.

Holding the paper up to the moonlight, Will managed to decipher a few of the scratched out sections. Bedelia was attempting to tell Igor about something Hannibal had said to her, but she could not seem to bring herself to repeat it, even in writing. She even tried several times in French and Russian, although Will could not say to what success. As the letter continued, the scratches overtook the remaining text until the letter was nothing but a mess of hopeless dark ink blurring together into a murky chaos. Until, at the very bottom and in the same ink but a different, much sharper hand, someone had managed to say it:

_The most beautiful firebirds are those that find themselves hunted and reborn._

Will froze, as if the words carried a lilting and vivid accent that he could nearly feel whispering at the shell of his ear. He whipped around suddenly, but still he was alone, and with a deep sigh, Will tucked the letter into his pack.

The rest of the papers were letters from different friends of Bedelia’s, written in a dozen different languages that Will didn’t know, so he packed them neatly into the hatbox one by one. Between a few of the letters were other tickets and photos. One showed a field of tall flowers that, even in fading sepia, seemed vivid to Will as he tried to imagine standing where it had been taken. Another photo looked over a placid, dark lake that was surrounded by tall trees. On the lake was a boat that looked like a plaything in comparison to the rest of the place.

Even before Will turned to the next photo, he knew that the lake was the one on Hannibal’s estate in Lithuania. And then as he set the landscape aside, Will was met with the dark, steady glare of his lover through a bent and tattered photo with a rusty smudge over the lower left corner.

He sucked in a deep breath and slammed his palm over Hannibal’s face before slowly revealing it again, framed by the luxurious and patterned red rug and highlighted by the silvered moonlight that was already beginning to fade into the discontent of dawn. Hannibal was a young man, probably as old as Will had been when they had first met—and as old as he still was, despite how long the months had felt—and there was no spiderweb of wrinkles around his eyes or lips. His hair, almost certainly still bright with color, although the photo failed to convey it, was slicked back, and he wore a simple dark suit. He looked harder, more brutal. The man staring at Will looked like a murderer.

To Will, it was a different person entirely. One that deserved the hell Jack Crawford stood for.

Biting his lip, Will ran a finger across the photo one more time, catching on the bloodstain in the corner, before folding and returning it to the hatbox. He didn’t bother looking through the rest of the papers before he put it all away and set the hatbox where it belonged, as if it had never been disturbed at all.

He folded the sheet and blanket that Bedelia had set out for him, and laid the pillow on top, with eyes staring up to the ceiling where they could not see him or his vernal plans.

Just before dawn, New Orleans came in shades of peach Will had never seen before. He wondered if maybe some kind of fruit tree grew, or could grow, out by the far cabin that came close. That, once spring returned to the bayou, could approximate the city’s dangerous charm.

His walk back to the cabin was slow as he tried to commit to memory the city at its most beautiful. Perhaps it could help calm him on bad nights in the future, and he could dream of finding again the peace he felt then. Occasionally he wondered if he looked now a bit like Hannibal in the photo he had found in Bedelia’s hatbox. Running a hand through his hair—which had grown long into a wild mess of curls—and pulling it back as if with pomade, Will tried to emulate the expression that had been on Hannibal’s young face.

As he walked eastward into the bayou, Will pretended the great rising sun was a camera’s flash bulb, and this portrait of him would be the first.

As the cold day ripened, Will’s confidence faded into a series of sour reminders that he was nothing more than a boy of the bayou who belonged nowhere else, even if he didn’t belong there, either. He had struggled to sleep, and in his fatigue, not even the already fading memory of an urban morning could ease the worries running through his mind.

He found himself sitting in center of the far cabin, with the intense smell of rot flavoring every breath. It was cold outside and only slightly warmer inside, as if the old wood was insulated by cobwebs and the pelts of a dozen long-dead creatures of the bayou. Hanging from the wall opposite the rickety door, which let in shards of light through its holes, was the disembodied rack of a monarch stag, with sixteen bony tines. It was many times less majestic, Will thought as he counted the points over and over again, than when still attached to the beast.

For a dangerous moment, he let himself believe that the stag he had saved was descended from the stag whose antlers hung over him now.

In his lap, Will held the creased and chaotic letter to Igor and read it over and over again. Each time, he thought maybe the foreign languages would become more familiar, the story unfold more clearly in his imagination. But still he couldn’t find a translation for the scribblings. So he just read and reread what he thought to be in Hannibal’s handwriting, about firebirds and hunting, beauty and rebirth.

Will tried to make a list of all the places Hannibal might have been staying. The list was short to begin with and nonexistent once Will excluded his own cabin and Bedelia’s home. Sighing, he let his head fall between his shoulders, eyes closed, and breathed in deeply. Hope had no place left in him, and it seemed like some inevitable fact that he would never smell the fresh spring air again. He would be dead or imprisoned. Alone, as a foreigner in his own home.

The tears that dripped onto the letter were warm and smeared the ink of Bedelia’s scratchings. They rolled down the crease of the paper, pulling phantoms of ink with them, but inexplicably they stopped before running into Hannibal’s addition.

Glancing up through clumped eyelashes, Will stared at the antlers on the wall, wondering if perhaps God had a monarch’s rack, and begged them to come to life and point him toward Hannibal. Toward the only thing in Will’s life that still felt familiar and warm in the winter.

God, or the antlers, didn’t seem to hear him.

Where once there had been leaves on the cypress branches, now there was ice-white moss and clumps of empty bird nests. Frost collected at the edges of the bayou’s dark water, melting into warm earth, and crisped the ends of Will’s curls.

The pirogue rocked with his sobbing breaths, and the tears streaking down the sides his face were too hot. He laid like Margot Verger’s body in the flat bottom of the boat, staring up through the skeleton branches, and let his arms drape over the sides of the boat and skim through the surface of the bayou water. The gray sky overhead seemed endless, expanding in every direction for an eternity, and yet there was nowhere for Will to go except to sink into the swamp to be with his father and all the lives he’d taken. To find commune with the cool murk, if he still could.

He imagined letting himself fall in, letting himself, unlike Jack, succumb to the cold like a failed monarch. Letting himself meet his father in their ancestral instinct.

Sitting up slowly and feeling a rush of blood to the head, Will bent over the edge of the pirogue to stare into the water. Somewhere beyond the opaque blackness, he could almost see the ripples from a silent alligator’s swishing tail. Taking a deep breath that he considered might be his last, Will dunked his head into the water, feeling the pressure ache in his ears.

After what felt like several hours under the surface, Will opened his eyes, expecting to see the void of death or loneliness. But instead what he found was a world beyond the one he knew, with snakes curling between moss and floating grasses, and catfish peeking out from hidden nooks in the rocks and earth. A few yards away, an alligator sat with its eyes and jaws closed. And at the bottom of the bayou, resting in a bed of mud and fallen autumn leaves, were the lifeless bodies Will and Hannibal had put there. Their faces were melting away, eyes eaten or disintegrated, and unrecognizable in their watery graves.

Will wanted to join them, and he nearly sucked in another deep breath with his head still under the surface. But then, distorted through the water, he heard his funeral song. Gentle, warm, inviting. In a lover’s voice, and then in a lover’s tongue.

Jerking his head out of the water and taking a dozen shallow breaths as his head swam from near suffocation, Will looked around desperately for Hannibal. With his hair plastered to his face and dripping onto his cotton shirt, and with his lover nowhere to be found, suddenly the winter was much colder. The bayou quivered where once his head had been, as if it was reaching out to him, welcoming him back from a long journey, and Will saw a single butterfly reflected silver in the shimmering waves.

He looked up, expecting to see a monarch waiting for him, but it was gone or never existed at all.

In the cold months, catfish tended to burrow deeper, out of the reach of fishhooks and force of will. So it was some small joy, as Will had found life now monotonous and dull, that he managed to catch two large catfish within a matter of hours. After mooring the pirogue at the base of a large and blackened cypress tree, Will hauled the two creatures over his shoulders, keeping his balance as the extra weight sank his feet into the chilled earth.

Finding himself in something of a meditative haze, going through the motions without thought, Will carried his catch up the creaking steps to his cabin and stopped on the bloody porch. He laid the fish across the wooden slats and reached for his Bowie knife, which he kept now in the seat of the rocking chair where his father had died and so had the man Will used to be. It felt natural in his grip now, as if it had molded to his hand with use, and Will worked carefully, methodically, to gut the first of the catfish.

What had once been a matter of food preparation was now an intimate affair, and Will intensely recalled how he had held Abigail close, his arms wrapped around her fragile and foolish form, and slit her throat in one too-easy pull of a knife’s blade. There was an elegance to it, a profound affection, that lasted even now as he butchered catfish as if they were lovers. His hands, steady and sticky with hot blood, ran over the smooth and scaleless skin of the creature as he pulled its organs from a slit down its belly. He slid the tip of the serrated blade under the fish’s skin and peeled it back, until the pale flesh faced him, gloomy and gray like the skies had been for the past several days as the end of his life approached. Like Abigail, he would not make it in this world.

After slicing fillets of the first catfish and then starting on the other, Will began to hum his funeral song. He hoped that, once he was dead, the woodpeckers and frogs and owls would sing it for him when no one else would. But what did the bayou know of jazz?

He called for Winston as he stood up, cradling the fillets to his chest. From between the bare trees, a mottled dog came loping, and a sad, wistful smile pulled at Will’s lips. Poor Winston deserved plush rugs and prime meats, but all he had was Will and the bayou. And yet somehow, the dog didn’t seem disappointed. Somehow, Winston was happy with—or perhaps oblivious to—all the failures of the world.

Will opened the door to the cabin as Winston began to bound up the creaking steps. For some ephemeral and inexplicable moment, Will noticed nothing wrong about the cabin he knew so well. In that moment, he felt as if he belonged once more. As if the cabin was again a home, reaching out to pull Will into its comfortable, warm embrace.

But then, as the moment of madness passed, Will froze under the cold gaze of his lover sitting primly in the high-backed chair at the table in the center of the cabin. Hannibal’s legs crossed at the knee, and he held a nearly empty wine glass in one steady hand while the other held the creased letter Will had taken from Bedelia’s hatbox. A dark woolen coat hung from the back of another mismatched chair. Will shivered and blindly threw a fillet behind him. Winston barked and the creaking faded as the dog chased the instinct of the hunt.

Swallowing heavily and feeling his heartbeat hammering against his ribs, Will stepped into the cabin and closed the door behind him, shutting out the world and trapping inside the cabin all the fear and thrill that had become so familiar since the last of the summer days.

“Hannibal,” Will murmured, dropping the rest of the catfish fillets where he stood.

He rushed forward and stepped right up to his lover, bending to kiss him, but the foreigner turned his head and said, voice clinical and low, “I am returning to Lithuania soon.”

Will took a step back, confused and embarrassed, and a hot flush rose to burn at his cheeks. “What?” he said, feeling like he might shrivel away and disappear. Perhaps he even wished for it, as he realized what Hannibal had said. Shaking his head fervently, Will began to tremble and murmur quiet denials. He must have sounded mad, destroyed by his own mind.

“Will.” His name had never sounded so harsh, and Will stared down at Hannibal, who sipped from the wine glass he held. “I am returning to Lithuania, and you will never see me again. Is that understood?”

Again Will shook his head over and over, until his neck ached and he thought he might drop dead from madness and vertigo. “No,” he said as fear ran cold through him. “No, you can’t. Hannibal, you can’t.” He sounded desperate—he _was_ desperate—and it was that desperation that fueled him as he draped himself over Hannibal, grasping him close and closer as he begged, “You can’t. I love you.” He clutched tight at the starched fabric of Hannibal’s shirt, pulling wrinkles through it as he said, “I love you. Please, no.” His mind was blank but for the begging and the hopelessness that came so close to emptiness. “Hannibal,” he whispered into the shell of his lover’s ear, “don’t go.” He had already cried all his tears, but that didn’t keep Will from sobbing against Hannibal’s neck, sucking in deep breaths of that dark and musky scent he had come to associate with everything that made his life worth living.

Hannibal let him sob and beg, not reacting until Will had given up on words and turned to pressing hot, sloppy kisses against the warm skin of Hannibal’s neck. Clearing his throat and holding his body perfectly still against the assault of obsession, the foreigner said, “I must. You have made it that I must, Will. You have left me no option.”

The words hit Will with all the power of a late summer thunderstorm, until he became soaked through and there was no reason to avoid the rain any longer. He reached up to run his fingers through Hannibal’s hair, destroying its perfect style, and gripped it tight enough to jerk Hannibal’s head back. There were sacrifices to make, lives to ruin, and nature to fulfill. If he could have, Will would have dissolved into ash or mud where he was, but alas, madness was not so kind to him. Instead, Will kissed and nipped at the hinge of his lover’s jaw and said between shallow breaths, “Take me.”

In one way or another, Hannibal obliged.

Strong hands wrapped around Will’s hips, and instinct drove the rest. Hannibal stood, carrying Will with him, and Will’s legs wrapped around his waist, arms around his neck and face buried in his lover’s scent. And Will held on, as if he could never let go, until Hannibal dropped him on his back onto the cabin’s bed. The foreigner climbed on top of him, deft fingers pulling at the buttons of his now wrinkled shirt as he went, and Will drew in the deepest breath he had in nearly a week as he watched Hannibal loom over him. Powerful, passionate, dangerous. A toxic blossom to sate the butterfly’s aching hunger. A fox to chase and an alligator to fear. A stag to revere, a catfish to hunt. An animal to live and die and be reborn with the far-off spring.

A man to love.

Hannibal shrugged out of his shirt and tossed it over the side of the bed to fall into a crumpled pile on the cabin’s wooden floorboards. His trousers went next, until—for the first time, Will realized with a thrill—it was Hannibal who was naked and the native man who still wore his soiled cotton shirt, soaked through with sweat and blood and bayou tears.

It didn’t last long. Hannibal yanked down Will’s loose trousers and tore his shirt from his chest with a dark, low growl. Will gasped, and it caught in his chest as Hannibal bent over to kiss and bite at the column of Will’s neck. Letting his head fall back in absolute, devastating pleasure, Will wrapped his arms around his lover’s muscular upper body, dragging his fingernails across the expanse of hot skin and leaving behind welts that raised red and burning like the graze of buckshot. Will moaned softly as Hannibal bit around the ridge of his collarbone, pulling the foreigner close and closer, until he thought maybe—by some magic of the bayou or madness—maybe Hannibal would never let him go.

Will’s body thrummed with some nameless emotion that lay between anxiety and devotion. Not even obsession could describe how he clung now to Hannibal, as if the entire world might fall away without him. In the past week, it already had, and there were still several months of winter left.

As Will bucked up into Hannibal, his lover’s hands gripped his bare hips and turned him over in one fast, smooth motion. With his face shoved into the stained crocheted blanket and his hips up in the air, Will let out a wanton moan and reached blindly back behind him to brush his fingers across Hannibal’s flank, desperate for as much contact as he could get. He clawed at the hot skin he found there and his nails came back bloody and dark.

Draping his body over Will’s, Hannibal growled again at the nape of the native’s neck and nipped hard at Will’s earlobe. A soft yelp escape from Will’s lips, muffled by the bed and blanket, and he pushed himself back into Hannibal, feeling the distinct and wicked pressure of his lover’s swollen cock at his lower back. It soothed Will, who felt now so close to his end, to know that the desperation was not his own madness, and that even monsters like Dr. Hannibal Lecter could need and want and ache.

Determined to be Hannibal’s own poisoned blossom, Will made Hannibal hunt for his meal. He bucked back against his lover and slammed his head back into Hannibal’s jaw. He wasn’t sure who was hurting more, but it didn’t matter as Hannibal’s sharp teeth clamped down on Will’s shoulder until blood ran hot down his chest and dripped onto the blanket to join the rest of the filth. As Will opened his mouth to let out a sharp scream, two strong, deft fingers slipped past his lips and firmly pressed his tongue down. Will’s mouth watered out of instinct, and he closed his lips around Hannibal’s fingers, sucking them the way he had sucked Hannibal’s cock. The way someday, he hoped, he would once again. Perhaps in a castle in Lithuania, or in a Parisian room overlooking the river, or on a pirogue on the bayou.

Will twisted his tongue around Hannibal’s fingers as his lover kissed and sucked at the quickly bleeding wound at Will’s shoulder. With an airy, light-headed pleasure, Will hummed his funeral song against the foreigner’s skin. Almost, past the rushing of the blood in his ears and past the harmony of their breaths, he could hear the bayou symphony joining in and wishing him farewell. And what a beautiful way to go, he thought to the same tune.

All of a sudden, the fingers were gone from his mouth and were squeezing between their bodies to press at Will’s entrance. Will mewled as if it caused him physical pain to part from a single inch of Hannibal’s body, but the sound morphed into a low moan as one of Hannibal’s steady fingers slid into him, slow enough to make his hips buck back against the intrusion and beg for more. In that moment, the winter chill faded, and it seemed almost as if summer had returned for a few fleeting moments of life.

Another finger joined the first inside Will, and soon he gave up the weak fight and let his chest and shoulders collapse against the bed, letting out a raspy, deep sigh. The hand that wasn’t half inside him came to run up and down the length of Will’s back, and Will clenched tight around his lover’s fingers as a terrible shiver ran through him. Looking back as much as he could, Will found himself transfixed by the way Hannibal seemed to glow, by the intensity in his lover’s face and form, by the pure and earth-shattering fear of losing him. A low, strangled sob escaped from his lips, and Hannibal met his eyes with a passion Will could not bear.

It was then that Hannibal withdrew his fingers from inside Will and lined his cock up at Will’s entrance. Breathing hard and heavy and smelling nothing but rot and desire, Will managed to say, with his voice breaking on each word, “Please. I need it.”

He was met with an animalistic growl and a sharp spike of pain as Hannibal seated himself into Will in one solid, fast thrust. Will did scream then, throwing his head back as his lover fucked him. All the anger and the pain and the betrayal and the anxiety formed one knot of awful pleasure in Will’s core, weighing him down and keeping him too close to the muddy ground. His face smeared his own dark blood across the white blanket, and Will could think of nothing except the heavy weight of Hannibal’s body against his back, the burning stretch at his entrance, the hot and savage breaths at the back of his neck, where his lover nipped and kissed. Just then, Will wanted to be eaten. Wanted to be consumed so completely that he could never return. Wanted to lay himself in Hannibal’s merciless hands and beg for impossible alligator mercy.

Hannibal’s fingernails dug into Will’s hips as he fucked him, drawing more blood that streaked across the bed with each thrust that shook the bed and made the floorboards creak dangerously. Will moaned or sobbed each time Hannibal’s cock filled him and stabbed at that growing knot of terrible, heavenly delight.

Occasionally Will’s eyes failed him, and all he could see was blackness, and each time, he was certain that death was there for him, ready for him. And he was ready to be taken. He needed it.

When Hannibal reached his climax, he shoved Will so hard into the bed that Will’s knees gave out, and he was laid flat with strong hands moving to wrap tight around his neck. As Will began to suffocate, began to reach out toward his father, began to sing his cracking and broken funeral song, he rutted as best he could into the rough bite of the crocheted blanket under him.

The warmth inside him and over him and surrounding him and devouring him was a renaissance of madness, and Will let out a strangled, foreign sound of anguish and exquisite, delicious thrill.

He lost himself as he came hard, biting deep into the meat of his own left hand, as if it could muffle the noises of his instinct. Tasting sharp, acrid blood, Will thought maybe he was as sick as Abigail had been. Hannibal was saving him the same way he had saved her. If taken now, before the rot filled his veins and tainted him completely, he could still sate an animal’s deep and abiding hunger. If it could be called a sacrifice, it was one Will was happy to make at the hands of his god.

The air in his chest filled with wet and murky pleasure, and slowly he faded from this life with Hannibal still deep inside him and murmuring some soft, unintelligible song in his ear. Perhaps it was Will’s own, lost in the drowning. In another life, perhaps he could have understood the way Hannibal spoke. And yet, Will let himself believe that the words were the three that Hannibal had never given him. The ones that could have put him finally at peace. The mountain for which he had been destined by ancestral instinct.

It was a hopeless pursuit, and he was a drop lost by the gallon.

The winter had frozen Will’s body solid where it laid, sprawled naked and bloody on the bed in the stilted bayou cabin. In some ways, he resembled his father. In a hundred others, he was a stranger. The cold mid-morning draft—coming through the barren cypress branches and the open door—had already extinguished all the kerosene lamps. But the rich, heady scent of chicory remained strong, wafting from a still-steaming steel cup on the table.

A whimpering Winston bounded up the creaking steps, hungry for his next meal, and ran for the bed. The dog jumped up into a drying puddle of blood and began to sniff curiously at Will’s shoulder and neck. A warm, wet tongue met cold skin as Winston lapped at Will’s sweat-salted cheek. Pawing at Will’s bloody hand and arm, Winston begged for something to eat. The catfish fillets Will had dropped on the floorboards had been long since devoured, and it would not do for a helpless dog to starve. But still Winston didn’t start to gnaw at Will’s motionless arm to sate his animal hunger. In a way, it made him less of a monster than Will had been.

Halfway through another series of curious licks, with warm, snuffling breaths ghosting across Will’s cheek and through his tear-clumped eyelashes, Will slowly blinked awake.

It felt as if his body was made of mud and rock, cemented into the earth, but his mind was floating off like some ephemeral cloud of butterfly wings. Everything hurt, with the aches weighing him down so heavily he could not move even though he tried.

With too much effort required and still nearly voiceless, Will said, “Hello, Winston.” Somehow in his own ear, Will thought he sounded like Hannibal.

After several minutes of trying, Will managed to reach up to stroke the dog’s soft and mottled coat. Under his fingers, the fur felt impossibly silky and familiar. If he had any energy to spare, maybe Will would have cried and mourned the man he had once been. But instead, he just laid in his own filth as he stared blankly out the open door, now hoping for some stray hunter to find him. But it was the wintertime, and there was nothing worthwhile left to hunt.

He sighed and began the long process of crawling out of bed.

As soon as he had his feet under him, Will noticed what still hung from the back of a mismatched chair, looking like a mistake or a message. He reached for Hannibal’s coat, brushing his fingers over the dark wool and imagining that the warmth in it was Hannibal’s residual influence. Still cold to the bone, Will pulled the coat from the back of the chair and swung it over his own shoulders, pulling it close to his bare skin. The fabric that was perfectly tailored across Hannibal’s broad shoulders threatened to drown Will, and he felt some peace in the loss.

Reaching for the warm cup of chicory coffee, Will wondered if Hannibal would be back. Likely not, he imagined. Although he had not expected to wake up at all, he certainly had not expected to wake up alone, with his lover’s come running down the inside of his thighs and his heart at the same time so fulfilled and broken. He held the cup close, sipping from it as Winston pressed his cold nose against Will’s bare legs.

“Yes, Winston,” Will murmured as his voice returned slowly, “I know. You’re hungry.”

Will took a step toward the almost empty baskets of food in the corner, and with the first step, the imbalance of weight in the wool coat became obvious and impossible to ignore. Stopping mid-step, Will sucked in a deep breath and set the cup of coffee aside. He paused for a moment to steel himself before reaching into the inner breast pocket and finding there another chance at hope. The silver of the pocket watch was cool to the touch, and the butterfly engraved at its front seemed to dance across Will’s fingertips. But under the trinket, there was something else in Hannibal’s coat pocket. Swallowing back an immediate pang of fear, Will pulled out the pocket watch and its accompaniment, a familiar piece of creased and scratched paper and another creased envelope Will had seen only once before.

Winston whined for food, and Will hushed him, gently pushing aside the dog’s insistent muzzle. Turning the trinket over in his hands, Will found himself almost afraid to open it, to see what time the hands read. To see whether it had been wound at all, as Hannibal had promised.

Deciding there was no place or time left for fear, Will pressed the crown of the watch, and it popped open with a soft click. Indeed the hands moved steadily, ticking forward and forward and never pausing or looking back. As a watch should do, Will knew. And yet he kept waiting for the timepiece to hesitate, for even the merest moment. He stared at its movements for nearly ten minutes, finding himself in something of a trance, before a gust of frigid air whipped through the open door and sent a shiver down his body.

After returning the pocket watch to the breast pocket, where it warmed against the bare skin of his chest, just over where his heart beat steadily like a timepiece itself, Will turned his attention to the folded envelope. Carefully, he pulled out the photo of a young Hannibal and the old man beside him, whom Will presumed to be a Lecter gone by, and he stared into the image of Hannibal’s alligator eyes. Some of the intensity Will expected was gone. Behind it, sadness. For a moment, he let himself believe that was how Hannibal had looked over his cold, naked body as the foreigner disappeared for the last time into the bayou night.

Will set aside the photo and nearly left Bedelia’s scribbled letter folded and unread. Except, as he laid the paper on the table, a faint reddish hue, unfamiliar from the many times he had pored over it, peeked through the fibers of the paper. Frowning, Will picked it up again, running his thumbs over the stains, and unfolded it with trembling fingers.

It was there, in the same sharp handwriting but a much more organic ink, perhaps Will’s own blood, just at the bottom of the letter.

_Every creature lives and dies by the seasons, and of them all, love is the most violent, with bitter blood and a tender heart._

A tear Will had not expected dripped from his cheek and smeared the note. But he did not sob. Instead, he smiled. So brightly it felt like his face might split in two and render him a figment of his own madness. Even if it was madness, Will embraced it, for Hannibal did love him, after all. Or had, at some point in the summer or autumn. And would again, come spring.

Suddenly, as if some shard of sunlight had shone upon him and illuminated his mind, Will knew what he had to do. It was reckless, it was dangerous, it was improbable if not impossible. And yet, he would do it to hold Hannibal in his arms again. To be held. To have those alligator eyes warm upon him. To hear whispered fragments of an unfamiliar language slowly become familiar. That was the beauty, Will realized, in the turning seasons. They came and went and came again, and there was nothing to stop them, not even death itself. The winter needed to be wild and fearless in its pursuit of spring, and in the face of a dauntless monarch, there was no such thing as failure.

Will turned to Winston and said, “What am I?” The dog cocked his head to the side, almost human in his confusion. Laughing, crying, manic in his joyful abandon, Will stood and shrugged out of his lover’s coat, letting the cold air wrap around him. “Here’s a hint, boy,” he said blithely as shivers wracked his whole body and a hunger of his own sparked in his core. “I’m a _hunter_.”

It was nearly noon by the time Will came to the outskirts of the city. He wore no shoes or shirt, and as the warm earth became cold streets, a plan came to him in fragments. In the pack slung over one shoulder was Hannibal’s wool coat and a strip of bedlinen torn from where Will’s own blood had stained it the night before. He kept the pocket watch, photograph, and letter in his own pocket, close to his body, warm and safe.

Will spoke to no one but carried his head high as he wandered through the city streets, looking for the police station on Basin Street. Women stared down at him from their balconies, with light furs wrapped around their shoulders, and the newsboy even paused his yelling to follow Will with his eyes. Certainly he looked like some kind of monster, with rusty blood mixed with dried sweat, and deep bite marks across his skin and bruises where the blood had been given no escape. His hair, wild and nearly like a halo, shifted in the winter wind, and as his skin prickled with chills, the hairs on his arms stood up like a beast’s.

On the corner of Basin Street was an old grocery store, with its name recently changed and repainted. In the ghosts and shadows of the wooden sign, Will could just make out the name Hobbs. He smiled, soft and fond, recalling Abigail’s gentle, trusting eyes and oily blood. She wouldn’t have survived in this life. As he heard the echoes of Hannibal’s voice at the base of his skull, a calm pride spread through Will’s chest, weaving around his ribs like summer vines.

He had saved her. And he was about to save Hannibal, too.

The police station was an ornate building in pale stone that almost looked like a castle. Slowly ascending the large staircase to the entrance, Will took a deep breath and bit his lip to bleeding. Tears prickled at his eyes, and he let them come.

“Sir? Are you alright? Can I help you?” said a young man in uniform from behind a desk as Will opened the door and stepped inside. It was nothing like a castle, after all. Everything was done in drab wood, and the floors were worn into trails that even the most inexperienced hunter could track. The most frequent destination lay behind a set of enormous double doors immediately opposite the entrance and behind the clerk’s desk.

Will purposefully took a stuttering breath and affected his voice until he sounded like the helpless victim he had once been. “May I speak to Detective Crawford, please?”

The clerk frowned and stood, looking Will up and down several times, as if the bayou man might collapse or attack. Perhaps there was a city instinct in him, one that served him well. Will shifted his weight from one foot to the other, considering an attack for a fleeting moment. But he had no knife with him, and worse than unnecessary murder was inelegant murder.

Finally nodding, the man said, “Certainly. Please, follow me.”

Will did.

“Mr. Graham,” Jack said, sounding genuinely surprised, as he reached out for a handshake. Will avoided the touch but was sure to give the detective a long flash of the bloody bite mark on his hand. The blood had dried dark in the puncture wounds, accentuating the pain of it. Bedelia would have liked to stitch it up, Will imagined as he stood still in front of Jack Crawford’s desk.

It was quiet for what could have been an eternity as Jack took his seat and tried to make sense of what was presented before him, looking like a gift but concealing a toxic blossom.

“Merry Christmas, a few days late. I will admit, I did not expect you to come. Your week expires tonight, and I was just about to send out the orders for a few of my men to visit you in the morning.” The detective laced his fingers over his stomach and gestured for Will to sit in one of the wooden chairs across the desk.

Will ignored the nicety and pulled his pack from his shoulder to come to a heavy, thudding rest on the surface of the desk, sending papers flying in every direction. The only thing not to move was a thick, leather-bound bible emblazoned with a golden cross, closed but at hand. As Will pulled the pack open and removed from it the wool coat, he said, still with that affected and forlorn tone, “I have him. In the cabin.” He let the coat crumple on the desk and then pulled out the bloodied fabric to lay atop it. “I defended myself.”

Jack went slack-jawed as he reached out to stroke the heavy wool.

“You were right, Detective Crawford,” Will said, trying not to smirk as he delighted in the naive arrogance that danced across Jack’s dark eyes. “Hannibal did plan to leave.” The threatening smirk did catch at the corners of his lips then as he quickly added, “But he _does_ love me, in his own way, so he returned this morning to kill me.”

The detective nodded, as if the pieces of the puzzle came together in his mind. Somehow he was blind to the trick. It sealed in Will’s mind that Jack truly did not know Hannibal at all. And that neither did he know Will. As if by blessing or madness, the tenuous plan Will had concocted found strong, deep roots like cypress trees, twisting upon the unseen, murky world of Jack’s mind. Will took a deep breath and reminded himself to look distraught and less dangerous than he truly was.

Jack cleared his throat and said, “Right. Well, I will go back with you, then.”

“No!” Will cried in an outburst that seemed to shock the detective, who frowned and opened his mouth to speak. Will interrupted him, thinking quickly: “He can’t know you’re alive. It would send him into a wild rage. Have your men come, instead. Two should be enough.”

A flash of what looked like suspicion twisted Jack’s face, and Will thought for a moment perhaps _he_ had been the one blinded by his own arrogance. That asking for proxies wouldn’t fit in the puzzle that was being created with each word. But the detective only sighed and said, “Yes, that will do. But I am eager to see Dr. Lecter again, so I will have them come this afternoon.”

Will smiled, wondering if he looked something like an alligator himself. It would only be right, after all. He lapped up the acrid, metallic blood that collected inside his lip and reached up to wipe away the stray tears that fell down his cheeks. He was so used to crying now that his disguise—the native man—was perfectly convincing. Will was almost convinced himself, until he remembered the note Hannibal had written in blood. There was no room for fear left in Will’s life.

As he shoved the coat and linens back into his pack, Will said, “Thank you, Detective Crawford. For saving me.”

“It is nothing short of my job, Mr. Graham.”

_DECEMBER 27, 1919— PROHIBITION LOOMING, BUY LIQUOR NOW_

Although the gray sky was still covered by thick, low clouds, the winter afternoon was at its warmest as Will opened a new bottle of rye whiskey and filled one of the battered steel cups. He moved slowly, steadily, and threw Winston the last of the peppergrass bread from the food baskets in the corner. The dog ate with a grateful but messy joy, and Will took a sip of the whiskey, saying, “I’ll get some meat later, okay?”

Barely glancing up at him, Winston seemed not to care. Seemed to be happy with peppergrass bread and all of Will’s failures. What a beautiful naivety, Will thought as the alcohol burned its way down his chest.

He browsed the day’s newspaper, which he had bought from the screaming newsboy with a crisp dollar bill he had found in one of the other pockets in Hannibal’s wool coat, which once again rested across the back of the mismatched chair beside Will. He had the feeling he wouldn’t be cold enough to need it, if all went well. And, if his plan did fail, he wouldn’t be needing a coat. He’d need a shroud or an angel, sent from God. It was some relief to Will then that no one would be disappointed in his failure. Winston would love him unconditionally, and Hannibal had already laid him to rest. The only impact Will could make now was positive.

For him, at least.

Smirking into his cup of dark liquor, Will began to sing a new variation on his funeral song, making up the words as went along. His voice cracked and strained over the high notes, and he sounded like a dying monster, but still he sang.

_oh, when the stag falls to the earth_

There was a whisper hidden in the wind that sounded like a harmony, and through the heavy scent of rot, Will could smell the residual notes of Hannibal’s cologne. He drank slowly, turning the page of the newspaper and coming to a short story about the cafe where he and Hannibal used to drink coffee and eat beignets and pretend they were normal. The old woman who owned the cafe had reunited with her Parisian brother, and in celebration, the cafe was now selling croissants and eclairs along with the usual pastries.

For a moment, Will tried to imagine being in Paris with Hannibal and Bedelia, attending the world premiere of a symphony and meeting its composer over French wines and sweet liquors. Taking the composer’s address and writing to him in scribbles and scratches long after Parisian nights were nothing but a series of enduring scents and sensations.

It was fanciful—beyond his imagination—and so foreign to him that fantasies nearly felt like memories.

He sipped his rye whiskey and let his eyes fall closed, picturing Hannibal’s body bathed in a warm electric light, surrounded by the deep reds and golds he imagined Europe to be filled with, not entirely unlike a bayou autumn with monarch butterflies and the sweet smell of rotting.

_oh, when the blood flows from the veins_

As he sang, Will flipped through the next pages of the newspaper, filled with obituaries and uninteresting stories about business or culture. Glancing up at the door every few minutes, Will felt a strange thrill, somewhere between excitement and dread, begin to twist deep in his guts. It was a delicious, intoxicating sensation, and he felt drunk on it rather than the whiskey.

The steel cup was nearing empty as he heard them coming. They were like foreigners, or newborn natives, chatting loudly between themselves and stepping on every drying branch or leaf. Their footsteps on the creaking cabin steps sounded lazy, perhaps reluctant, and they paused on the porch before knocking. Will could almost see them surveying the rocking chair and the blood stains, noting the oddities of the bayou in their notepads. It wouldn’t matter, if the notepads never returned to the city at all.

“Come in,” Will called out, leaning back and crossing his legs primly, drink in his left hand and newspaper in the right.

_oh, when the prey cannot escape_

The door opened, slow and cautious, and Will took a deep, heavy breath to anchor himself in his own body.

There were two of them, tense in their dark uniforms, one with blond hair and the other with a bird’s nose. At their chests, Will could see their names stitched in white: _Price_ and _Zeller_. A morbid curiosity crossed Will’s mind as he wondered whether the white thread would dissolve in the bayou like eyeballs and skin and faces, leaving them nameless and anonymous and close to forgotten.

“Mr. Graham?” Zeller asked, frowning in confusion as his eyes flitted across the cabin, looking for a bound foreigner to be taken as prisoner. He was not a complete idiot for doing so, although Will had to smother a smirk as he tried to imagine what Hannibal would look like, tied up and beautiful, angry and aroused and demanding to be released, ready to fight, ready to bury Will under his weight and heat, ready to hunt and be hunted. A completely unrelated thrill warmed Will from the inside, and it took more than a little effort to push the idea aside for later. Perhaps for never, except in death. But there was no time or place for fear, so Will allowed himself to believe fantasies would someday become reality.

Will delighted in their stiff shoulders, the tight jaws, the expectation of trouble. Delighted that they would never consider him, as if he were nature herself, an unrivaled hunter. He sipped his rye whiskey and said, “I hope it wasn’t too difficult to come.”

Price glanced down at his boots, which were covered in a light coat of drying mud. A few dead leaves stuck to the heel, and the usual polished sheen was dull and scuffed. “It would have been easier if the station had an automobile,” Price said with a casual shrug that only vaguely masked the deeper frustration Will could discern by intuition or instinct.

“Well,” he said, setting aside the newspaper and finishing his drink, “it wouldn’t have done you much good out here.”

_oh, when the blade glints in the sun_

Zeller lost his patience then. Clearing his throat, he said, “Detective Crawford said you had Lecter here? Where is he?”

There was a brief, ephemeral moment in which Will considered telling them the truth—that he had no idea where Hannibal was—but it passed like a late summer thunderstorm, and instead he nodded. “Yes,” he said before pausing to swirl his empty steel cup, looking for the psychedelic glistening of a stray drop of alcohol. He thought maybe he saw one, like a butterfly floating up the battered wall of the cup, but as always, it was there and gone within a blink, and Will tipped the cup into his mouth to catch the last drop with the tip of his tongue.

“Mr. Graham.”

Will set the cup on the wood table with a heavy clunk, and he stood so quickly the blood ran to his head and he thought he might collapse. After collecting himself and taking another deep breath of rotten bayou air, Will said, “I have him in the far cabin. It’s abandoned—a hunter’s cabin. Can’t get out without a boat, and with all the stag racks, there are more places to tie someone down.”

Price shot Zeller a quick glance. “I assume you have a boat, Mr. Graham?”

Nodding, Will said, “Of course. I can take you, if you like.” Will could see the silent conversation passing between the two policemen. A dubious caution, the realization that there was no other way. The slow and reluctant agreement. Reluctance was good enough, Will thought.

“Yes, I can see the necessity of a native’s guidance,” Price said after a moment. Zeller said nothing but gave a short affirmative gesture that was somewhere between a salute and a nod.

_oh, lord, I want to be in that number_

Will smiled at them, trying not to look as powerful as he felt. “Certainly,” he said, reaching for Hannibal’s coat to let his fingers graze against the dark wool. “Let me just put on something warmer, if you don’t mind. I’ll meet you at the water’s edge in just a moment.”

The policemen nodded in unison, and they disappeared out the door so quickly Will wondered if the scent of death and desperation burned in noses.

Once he pulled Hannibal’s coat from the chair and wrapped it around his bare shoulders, Will took up the steel kitchen knife from where it sat plainly at the cabin’s center table, surrounded by clutter and soon-to-be-memories. Pouring himself one more quick swallow of whiskey, Will let his head fall back so he could whisper to his father, “I love you, Pa.”

_oh, when the saints go marching in_

When Will emerged from the cabin, the chill in the air hit him with enough force he nearly fell to his knees in the pool of dried blood on the porch. Against his rye-flushed cheeks, the winter was a tender caress, a stark reminder of the season, and a flood of sensation that almost overwhelmed him. A shiver ran down his entire body, and Will swallowed heavily as he collected himself, willing the happy haze to fade in the time between the porch and the far cabin. He needed the false courage to set off, but the steady hand of sobriety to make good on his ambition. The blade of the kitchen knife pressed, dangerous and visceral, against the delicate skin of his outer thigh, just beneath his left hip. The metal was warm with him, a part of him, and with each step, Will was reminded of his plan.

As he began down the first step, he was intimately aware of the imbalance of Hannibal’s coat around his shoulders. The pocket watch was heavy in the left side, and the folded newspaper bulked out the right hip pocket.

The policemen sat talking idly at the edge of the bayou, next to the pirogue between the roots of two black and bare cypress trees. When they saw him coming, both straightened up, pressing their shoulders back and adopting stern expressions that were better suited to angry parents and dead men.

“How far is it?” Zeller asked as Will began to unmoor the boat.

Shrugging, Will said, “Not far. Ten minutes, maybe. More if we run into trouble.”

Price let out a strangled huff that shot a thrill through Will, and as he stepped barefoot into the pirogue’s flat bottom, he held out a hand to help the city men into the boat that rocked under the shifting weight. Once both policemen where settled on one of the boat’s wooden benches, Will picked up a splintering oar and began row them out into the bayou, away from everything they knew, and toward almost certain trouble.

It was a slow, quiet journey, with the policemen distracted by the bayou’s beauty, or the nightmare of it, and with Will taking slow, deliberate breaths.

When the far cabin appeared through the branches and trunks of the cypress and black gum trees, looking like a piece of nature itself, Will glanced over his shoulder and said to the policemen, his voice a husky whisper, “We should be quiet. If he hears us coming, he might have a plan to escape, or worse.”

Price’s shoulders tensed up then, and Will had to look back over the water to bite back a smirk. He could see their faces reflected in the still, black water, and where the ice crystals formed at the edges of the bayou, Will saw their destruction. He began to hum his funeral song, imagining his new lyrics, and it was Zeller who glared and said, at a whisper himself, “Did you not say to be quiet, Mr. Graham?”

“He wants me to come. It’s you that he won’t be glad to see.”

Zeller’s face went sour, lips puckered and brow furrowed, and fear only slightly masked by irritation. But he said nothing else, and Price sighed, as if to prepare himself for battle. It was well enough, as long as he considered the possibility of a traitor driven by desperation and something near madness but too lucid. Too intentional. Too dangerous. In their watery reflection, Will could see his eyes shimmer like an alligator’s. Could see a crown of twisting antlers and butterfly wings floating above his head like a halo. Could feel the blood of a monster run through his veins, warming him from the inside and reminding nature that he was a hunter, hungry for his dinner.

The pirogue came to a rest beside a cluster of black gum trees that had a mooring rope tied around its collective roots. Will jumped out with ease and began to tie the boat down as the two policemen awkwardly clambered out of the pirogue and onto the chilled earth.

Both of them eyed the abandoned hunting cabin with suspicion, and as Will stood up straight, he adjusted the kitchen knife in his waistband.

“Right,” Will murmured as he came up behind the two policemen. “It’s probably best if I go in with one of you, and the other stays outside.”

Zeller frowned and said, “Why not both of us?”

Letting a false, tense anxiety pull at his lips, Will said, “It’s wintertime, sir. The alligators will be wanting something to eat. If you stay outside, then you can warn us in time if one comes up on land. Or tries to attack the pirogue.”

The anxiety was contagious, and Price said, “What happens if one does come?”

“I kill it. Or it kills us.”

Zeller nodded sharply, just once, and said, “Fine. I will wait.”

Price looked like he was about to argue, say that _he_ should stay outside and Zeller should go in, but Will rolled his shoulders and said, “We’ll call for you if we need help.” And with that, he set off for the far cabin, only a few hundred feet back from the water’s edge. Will didn’t glance over his shoulder, but he could hear the reluctance with which Price followed him. Still the policeman sounded like a foreigner, stepping over the loudest branches and leaves and making a terrible noise very unlike a good hunter. Then again, Will thought with a dark twinge of joy, it did make the policeman easy prey for a native monster or another abomination of the bayou.

The cabin’s rotting walls were frosted white, and it looked almost like a ghost between the trees. The garden of wild plants that usually grew around it was dead and empty, with only the hardiest mosses still clinging to life. Price stayed a few steps behind until Will stopped at the door and prepared himself.

He had done it what felt like a million times before. And yet, he had to calm the thrill that built up in his chest, urging his heart to beat faster and faster.

“He’s in there?” Price whispered, nearly inaudible beneath the wind and the far-off birds.

Nodding, Will reached out for the door and in turn, played the first note in a terrible, lovely symphony of blood and bone and butterfly wings.

The door came open without resistance, without a lock to keep in the illusion of a prisoner, and he stepped in, saying to the stag’s rack on the wall, “Hannibal.” Price came in behind him, and as the policeman’s eyes were adjusting to the dark, Will pulled the door closed behind them and yanked the knife from his waistband, cutting through the skin of his hip and sending a trickle of hot, dark blood down his leg.

Price blinked twice, looking around for the foreigner, but there was no one to be found except Will Graham, the hunter. For Will, time seemed to falter and dance like a broken pocket watch, and that was when he made his attack. The few ribbons of light that came through the cracks in the cabin’s door glinted off the steel of the kitchen knife’s blade and the tinge of red at its tip as Will came up close behind Price, pulling his head back with the flat of his hand pressed over the policeman’s eyes. Price let out a loud cry of surprise and fear that was cut short by a deep, decisive, and neat slice from ear to ear in a gentle arc, just as Hannibal had taught him.

Boiling hot blood gushed from the policeman’s gaping neck, covering Will as he released the dead man’s head. Price’s body crumpled into a pile of city instincts and sacrifices, and immediately Will called out, sounding less frightened than he tried to, “Zeller!”

The other policeman must have started to run up at his partner’s yelp, and just as Will turned around to scream again, the cabin’s door slammed open, sending dust and desperation flying in the air, lit by the even light of a winter afternoon. Where Will stood, the antlers hanging from the wall behind him seemed to emerge directly from his wild, tangled curls. Between the open lapels of Hannibal’s dark wool coat, the blood down Will’s naked chest shimmered as he breathed, and as soon as he met Zeller’s eyes, Will could see the realization dawn in them. But it was too late. Will smiled, hoping he looked like an alligator or Hannibal or both, and rushed straight into Zeller’s body, holding the kitchen knife close to his side. He held Zeller’s shoulder tight to brace him against Will’s animal strength, and they met in something almost like a hug.

As the blade ran through Zeller’s stomach and the policeman let out a hot breath into Will’s face, Will could smell a deep, sultry delirium that might have been blood or adrenaline or victory. His hand followed through the enormous gash in Zeller’s guts, and soon, Will’s hand and wrist were surrounded by burning, squelching innards. When he pulled back, the blade of the knife opening up the rest of the policeman’s abdominal cavity, Zeller fell to a puddle beside his partner. His intestines dripped out of him like thick bayou water, meeting the cold air and thrumming with the last pulses of life.

Zeller’s mouth opened and closed weakly, as if he were trying to say something, but Will couldn’t hear. Didn’t care to hear. Instead, he began to laugh, standing over his prey with a blood-covered knife and arm and chest. His own blood running hot down his leg, forgotten. He laughed and sang his twisted, cracking funeral song, and he was a god of his own. The policeman made a few unintelligible mumbles with his dying breaths, and Will imagined they were prayers begging for mercy.

He fell to his knees beside Zeller and cut away the blood-dark uniform. Zeller’s stitched name was stained a deep, rusting red, and the deep blue wool went black. Will dropped the knife, digging into the policeman’s stomach with his hands, pulling out organs and laying them over the man’s stilling chest as his skin went pale. Intestines, then kidneys and a blackened, pitted liver. He took up the knife again to carve away the necessary parts, and in the mess there was beauty. Will made a bloody bayou scene out of the man’s body, delighting as he added a pirogue made of liver and two figures in it made of frayed fingertips. The fingers brushed against one another, intimate and familiar, and Will used the other eight to make bodies bobbing up out of the water. To make the bayou canopy in its summer fullness, Will dug the tip of his blade into Zeller’s chest, peeling back the skin and sawing through bone until his arm ached. There, underneath the ribs, was a wine-bloody heart, gone still and starting to cool in the winter air. Will cut it out, not with Hannibal’s usual precision, but with a passion.

With Zeller’s heart resting on a pillow made by the policeman’s blood-soaked uniform, Will turned his attention back to Price, whose body laid now in a puddle of its own blood. Will first finished slicing through the man’s neck, until his head rolled off to the side, blond hair turning red. Will picked up the man’s head and carried it to the wall where the stag’s rack loomed over them. With a bit of luck, he managed to balance the policeman’s head in the cradle of antlers, so Price looked through blank, glassy eyes out over the mess and madness. The light coming in from the door fell across the art Will had created, and he took a moment with Price to admire his creation. Then he took a deep breath and returned to his work.

More methodically now, as the adrenaline faded and hunger took over, Will unbuttoned the uniform coat on Price’s body and cut his chest open in the Y-shape Hannibal had shown him on Abigail’s body. He cut out Price’s heart and set it beside Zeller’s, and together they looked like violent lovers. Power ran through Will’s veins, and he was drunk with it. When once he had separated pleasure and preservation, now—as his hands worked together, worked as one to create this undoing—they came together, indivisible and in fact identical.

He began to saw off Price’s leg just beneath the hip, and as he did, he wondered if it would taste like Margot’s. Winston likely wouldn’t care. The dog would be happy to eat. So would Will. It took more time and energy than he had, and once his masterpiece was complete, Will was exhausted, his vision wavering and his body on the verge of collapse. But more than that, he was hungry. Starved and needing. But he knew he couldn’t sate his hunger without first offering a sacrifice to God or whatever abomination had created him.

The sun peeked out from a break in the cloud cover as Will made slow trips between the far cabin and the pirogue tied around the black gum trees. His hair was matted with blood, and his chest painted with it, only slightly less beautiful than the canvas that used to be Zeller. He carried Price’s body out first, clutching it close, and laid it in the flat bottom of the boat.

With steady hands, Will buttoned up Price’s uniform coat around his gaping chest, missing its heart. The blood-stained stitching would be the only way to identify the headless body.

Will left the mess, his kitchen knife, and Price’s head in the far cabin, but moved Zeller back to the pirogue with great care to lay artfully over Price’s body. All the blood had drained from Zeller’s face, and the look of shock was fixed across his face for eternity, or at least until nature reclaimed his flesh and spun it into a new creature’s life. As he draped Zeller over Price and arranged the policemen into a masterpiece of death and beauty and warning, Will tried to imagine a stag’s rack with dark blue threads winding around antlers. He left Zeller’s eyes open to stare up past the skeleton branches into the vast nothingness of the winter sky, and wrapped one of Price’s arms around Zeller’s waist to hold his partner tight.

A trail of blood marked a path between the edge of the bayou water and the chaos of the far cabin. In the spring, the herbs and vegetables would return to the barren ground, fertilized by blood and born from death. Such was the way of the bayou, of the seasons, and of whatever wicked nature had created Will Graham.

Lastly, Will carried Price’s disembodied leg and the policemen’s two hearts from the far cabin to the boat. He unmoored the pirogue and stepped in, dancing around the stray limbs of his prey. Taking up the splintered oar, he began to push the pirogue away from the water’s edge and deep into the bayou, all while singing his debauched funeral song. Soon the lyrics failed to make sense, and he was but another instrument in the symphony of bayou creatures.

He let the boat come to a gentle rest halfway back to his stilted cabin. For several minutes, he just sat there, letting his bare feet press between Price and Zeller for warmth, and took in the bayou. He knew it well, and had his entire life, but now there was a new sort of beauty to it, like ice crystals on fern leaves, so sharp and peaceful that any movement might ruin the illusion. He breathed deeply, pulling Hannibal’s coat close around him. Somehow, the blood that seeped into its weave was invisible, and somehow it still smelled intensely like the foreigner. He reached into the inside pocket and pulled out the silver pocket watch, turning it over in his hands and admiring the way it reflected the now bright sun back into the trees.

Popping the pocket watch open, Will watched the hands tick forward, steady like a surgeon’s, as perseverant as a fox, and as ambitious as the butterfly on its front. It would never escape the silver into which it was engraved, Will knew, and yet it was always flying, looking for its instinctual mountain.

Once, when Will was a young boy, his father had shown him the pocket watch and said that, when the time was right, it would be his. In the time since then, since he had found his father’s lifeless body in the still-rocking chair on the cabin’s porch, it had not just become his, it had become him. Held close to Hannibal’s chest, unbalancing them both with the constant ticking of a wound mechanism, organic clockwork. Will clutched the pocket watch close and listened to its quiet, metronomic rhythm as he sang his funeral song one last time.

_oh, lord, I want to be in that number, when the saints go marching in_

He slipped the pocket watch back into the inner breast pocket of Hannibal’s coat and pulled the wool closer around his body. He let his lover’s scent wrap around him, intoxicating in the way nothing else was, before he pulled the folded newspaper from the coat’s right hip pocket.

Borrowing one of Zeller’s fingers that formed his own portrait across the policeman’s chest, Will penned a note to whomever would find them. It was written in dark blood across newsprint, and it was a simple message: _THANK YOU FOR SAVING ME, DETECTIVE CRAWFORD_. It took several dips into Zeller’s bloody gut to finish the note, and Will began to get frustrated with it a few words in. He signed his name in initials, returned the finger to his artwork, and laid the newspaper neatly beside the two corpses.

Will took a few deep breaths, wishing he had some whiskey to ease the love in his heart, and took up the splintered oar in his blood-covered hands, leaving messy handprints across the wood. But instead of setting the blade of the oar into the water and rowing the pirogue home, Will threw it as far as he could.

It splashed into the glassy water several yards away, and Will watched as the browning duckweed settled around it again, and then as it sank into the murk to come to rest with the rest of the bodies at the bayou’s floor.

Shoving the hearts of the policemen into each hip pocket of Hannibal’s coat, Will said into the brightness, “I’m coming.” He took Price’s dismembered leg and draped it over the back of his neck, where his curls knotted at his nape. Holding it tight, afraid to lose the only part of his masterpiece left, Will stood at the edge of pirogue, looking into the opaque blackness of the bayou water, and took one last breath.

When he fell in, the murk was warm against his skin, and it washed him clean.


	7. A Living

His lungs burned, as did the muscles of his legs. The extra weight around his neck and in his pockets, the viscosity of the murky water, and the hunger eating him alive all slowed Will down as he swam through the bayou toward his cabin, the only home he had ever known. But it was the determination to see Hannibal again—to finish what he had started—that kept him going. He passed alligators and catfish, dodged rocks and grasses, and came up every few kicks to suck in a desperate breath of cold, sharp air. Each breath made him want to vomit, but there wasn’t enough in his stomach—nothing but rye whiskey and sheer, visceral power—to bring up anyway, so it just burned at the back of his throat and reminded him how he starved.

A swirling trail of blood bloomed behind him as he swam, coming mostly from the severed leg he held around his neck, but also from the gash down his outer thigh from the kitchen knife he had kept there. In part, that burn kept Will tethered to reality, when the rest of him begged to fly away like a butterfly or sink to the bottom of the bayou like his father.

Despite the chumming of the water, no other creature dared to approach him. He was a monster or a god, lost within himself, and there was nothing to stop him, not even death itself.

His eyes stung in the murk, and as he saw the edges of land closing in, Will slowed down and stood up in the bayou. Tangled and plastered across his face, his dark, wild hair sharply contrasted the paleness of his skin and the flush of his cheeks. Blinking several times against the brightness of the winter sun, Will struggled to breathe, and his heaving bare chest displaced the water so it rippled out from around him. Hannibal’s coat clung to his back and shoulders, and Price’s severed leg seemed to sweat against his nape.

Will let the leg fall with gravity from around his neck to splash into the water. Using whatever remained of his energy, he hauled the leg up onto the muddy ground and then, by determination if nothing else, Will crawled up out of the water until he laid face-down in the mud, feeling still like he might vomit or die. When he could muster the strength to do so, Will turned his head and looked back toward his cabin, nearly expecting to see a phantom of himself bounding forward to take an ancestor in his arms, as Will had once done out of madness or love or whatever fantasy came at the intersection of the two. But no one came running, and Will was finally able to lay his father to rest as he now allowed himself to rest, until his breathing slowed and his heartbeat calmed. The sun overhead ticked forward, steadfast and eternal. Will could feel the pocket watch under him, pressing into his ribs and reminding him that time was something sacred.

Finally Will rose to his knees, and then stood on aching feet. Wavering from intoxication and exhaustion, he struggled to pick up Price’s leg again, so instead he held it by the ankle and dragged it behind him, through the mud and the madness, all the way back to the stilted cabin.

As soon as he set his foot on the first creaking step, a mottled dog came running from out past the horizon, as if summoned by a prayer. Will managed to smile again, and as Winston’s soft fur brushed against him, his chest felt so full that he might burst. And with that extra energy from the abyss, Will hauled Price’s leg up the stilted cabin steps and laid it across the table. Winston followed him, with the abiding patience of some creature much kinder than whatever Will was.

Will was quiet as he found his Bowie knife and sawed off Price’s thigh from just above the knee. Whining and begging, Winston nuzzled against Will’s own wet and bleeding leg. He tossed the chunk of meat and bone to Winston and left the lower part of Price’s leg on the table, next to his bottle of rye whiskey.

As the dog delighted in his dinner, Will darted around the cabin, stuffing his pack with whatever he could think to take with him. He stopped at his bed to pull the two policemen’s hearts from the pockets of Hannibal’s coat and lay them on the stained and unraveling crocheted blanket. Wrapping them in the blanket until none of the liver-dark flesh was visible through the large stitches, Will began to think of what else to write to Jack Crawford. He still had a page of newsprint left, the one with the story about the owner of the cafe and her Parisian brother. There were a million things he wanted to say, but even as Will was now—so like Hannibal in many ways—he still lacked the easy eloquence of his lover.

It took him until he had the blanket-wrapped hearts pushed into the bottom of his pack, covered with a few changes of clothing, his foreign shoes, and what remained of the chicory root he had gotten from Bedelia, for Will to imagine what he could possibly write to Jack that would absolve him of his love.

He sat at the table in a mismatched chair and stared down at the face of the cafe’s owner. She and her brother posed for a sketched portrait, holding a plate of pastries between them. Will held a fountain pen that his father had kept under one of the loose floorboards with the matches and fishhooks. Its ink was a dark black, darker than the newsprint, and it bled through the thin paper as Will began to write. After every few words, he scratched out everything he had written, until there was only a chaos of handwriting and one simple directive, the clearest Will could find:

_You are safe only if we are._

He gave up then, not able to find within himself the poetry of Hannibal’s note on Bedelia’s letter.

Still wearing Hannibal’s wet wool coat, Will slung his pack over his shoulder and ran a hand through his hopelessly tangled curls. He would need a haircut soon, if he survived long enough outside the bayou to find a barber. He paused, considering that it might never happen, and took the bloody Bowie knife from where it sat next to Price’s lower leg.

It took a fraction of the effort to saw through matted, knotted hair as it did through a policeman’s neck or leg or bowels. A mess of trimmings covered the table and floor, and Will didn’t stop until his hair was shorn close to his scalp, with only a few curls remaining at the top and back. His head felt a million times lighter, cooler, and what nasty parts of him had grown throughout his life in the bayou now laid dead and limp on the wooden floorboards. What remained certainly was not pretty or well-designed, but it was the heart of his new reality.

Winston came to sniff at the hair on the floor, and Will knelt down beside him. The gash in his leg burned and he sucked in a breath through his teeth to manage the pain. A warm, wet tongue lapped at the bayou water and sweat that was drying on Will’s cheek, and Will wrapped his arms around Winston, burying his face in the soft, mottled fur.

“I’m sorry, Winston,” Will murmured into the warmth of his dog’s neck and shoulders. Winston gave a soft whine, and Will could hear it viscerally, weaving in with the dog’s heartbeat and breathing and the quiet hum of blood through veins. He took in a deep breath, smelling that rich, rotten, animal sweetness that he had never taken the time to appreciate. Aspects of what he had always attributed to the cabin or the bayou in fact came from Winston, and Will couldn’t apologize enough, so all he said was, “I love you.”

When finally he pulled back, Will stared at Winston, trying to read the thoughts behind those dark, soulful eyes. It was a language he didn’t know. Sighing, Will said, “This is how the world works, boy.” The dog cocked his head to the side, letting his tongue loll out. Will couldn’t help but laugh, and he scratched between Winston’s ears.

“This is how the world works,” he repeated, mostly to himself. In a cycle, with life followed by death followed by life again. Some drops were lost along the way, but the gallon would survive, and the mountain would be covered with butterfly wings, cabin walls with stag crowns, and the bayou ground with peppergrass and ferns.

Standing and trembling under the fierce ache of his wounded leg, Will pulled Hannibal’s coat close around him, felt the imbalance of the pocket watch’s weight, and took one last look around the cabin where he had lived his entire life. Where he had died, in one way or many. And then he turned to leave, with the floorboards creaking as he went. Behind him, he could almost smell fresh chicory coffee and the burning wood stove. The rot and the sex and the death and the brine. But before him was the fresh winter air, cold and sharp and carrying the first notes of spring.

Will paused at the door, with one foot over the threshold, and glanced over his shoulder to Winston, who stared back at him. “Wait for me, boy,” he said, his voice very quiet and sounding as if it might have been in a different language, but still Winston understood. The dog gave a slow blink, licked his nose, and Will was free. He left the door open behind him as he left the porch and the rocking chair and the steps and the cabin and the past in his wake.

As Will limped into New Orleans, the hard, freezing ground of the bayou didn’t feel much different than the manmade streets. He moved as quickly as he could, knowing his time was limited, and although he held his head high, he looked at none of the people who stared at him.

The sounds of the city were louder than Will remembered, as if cotton had been removed from his ears and he could hear clearly after a life of muffled isolation. The music drifting from shop doors and the chattering coming from dinner tables through balcony windows, the squeak of streetcars and the low grumble of automobile engines. Will could hear himself breathing, could see his breath form wispy puffs just past his lips, and could feel the steady pace of his rising and falling chest, in harmony with his heart and the pocket watch. And as he came closer to Dr. Du Maurier’s Medicines, Will almost thought he could catch on the air that sweet, dark perfume he had smelled when he had first met Bedelia and Hannibal.

The great red door, covered by vines unaffected by the season, was open, and a quiet symphony drifted through the shop and into the street where Will stood, admiring it one last time. He took in a deep breath and went inside, straight past the empty shelves, past the unmanned counter, and through the second set of red doors that led into Bedelia’s office. The music swelled to a great crescendo as Will pushed the doors open and stepped inside, past all the green chairs and immediately to the oriental screen behind which Bedelia made her medicines and played God. She had no time to react before he said, “Tell me where he is.”

“Will!” She jumped up out of her chair, and for once he felt much taller than her. Of course he always had been, but as she flushed hard, her eyes wide and mouth agape in surprise, elegant hand pressed firmly against her chest, Will realized the power he held over her, if for no reason other than his height.

He swallowed heavily, letting all his weight come to rest on his uninjured leg, and he said, “Bedelia, tell me. I have just killed two policemen and I need to find him so we can leave.” Saying it felt so clinical, so unrepresentative of what beauty and chaos he had left in the bayou, but still it seemed to shock Bedelia enough that she took a step back, until her shoulders pressed against the deep red wallpaper, almost blood-black. Will paused long enough to hear the shimmering violins from the phonograph before saying, “I won’t hurt you.”

But he was dangerous now, in his own right, and the apothecary had city instincts.

Bedelia glanced down, as if she was ashamed to have made her retreat at all, and finally she looked back up at him, bright eyes narrowed in something almost like pain or regret, and said, “An abandoned plantation house, a few miles west.”

“Thank you,” Will said, his voice as gentle as he could make it. “Thank you for everything.”

And then he turned to leave, as quickly as he came, limping all the way.

“Wait!” Bedelia called after him. He paused, glancing at her over his shoulder, and she hurried up behind him, holding out a small amber vial. “It’s for the pain.” A flash of suspicion crossed Will’s face then, and Bedelia’s red-painted lips pulled into a slight frown. Still, Will didn’t take the vial from her, so Bedelia opened it, took the first sip herself, and then thrust it out into his chest, saying, “I promise.”

There was a moment in which Will waited for her to drop dead, but it never came, and he smiled softly as he took the vial and downed it. “Thank you,” he said again before adding, “Dr. Du Maurier.”

Bedelia opened her mouth as if she wanted to say something, but the words never came, and Will turned and left, wondering if all her eyes could somehow see the hearts inside the pack on his back.

Going westward, the ground didn’t soften like it did heading back east into the bayou. Will’s bare feet pressed against the earth, but he left no footprints behind him. If he had, they would have been uneven and a lasting reminder of the pain in his leg and the limp that resulted from it. Bedelia’s potion had taken off the injury’s harshest edge, but in the void it left behind, not even an apothecary’s magic could conjure the pleasure of love. The blood down his leg had dried completely, blending into mud smears and a perpetual grime that seemed to stain him. Will pulled Hannibal’s coat tight around him, the hearts in his pack almost feeling like they were beating again, and he limped on.

It didn’t matter that he had no clue what to look for, that he had only the vaguest idea of what a plantation house might look like. He had long since passed the cottages at the outskirts of New Orleans, and all that was left as he walked down the street was empty land and the beginnings of twilight. Not like a bayou twilight, with the haze and the weight, but open, as if the whole world was spread before him. In some ways, Will thought, perhaps it was.

Will stared out over the horizon, almost waiting to see Jack Crawford walking toward him from the wild unknown, but as Will walked and walked, he never met another soul except maybe for the vultures circling overhead.

When it came into view, set off the road by a long drive and obscured by bare trees—magnolias and oaks and willows—Will thought it was a castle. Not pale, weathered stone, but tall white columns faded gray and wrought iron with chipping red varnish. The facade was a soft, old yellow that cracked and allowed vines to grow up to the second story veranda. Several of the windows were broken or gone altogether, and the big black door at the center of the house looked like its knocker was missing. It could have been a castle to him, and even as he came closer, even as all its flaws became apparent and impossible to ignore, Will thought it was the most beautiful building he had ever seen. Because that was where Hannibal was.

He hoped, at least.

Will hiked his pack up over his shoulder and took a deep breath as he turned into the drive, walking through a tunnel of bare trees, with small rocks digging into the soles of his feet. He took a dozen steps forward, and the house seemed not to get any closer. So instead he ran, so intent on taking Hannibal into his arms again that there was no time for anything else.

Halfway to the house’s front door, Will tripped over rocks or desperation or his own feet, and he fell to a sprawl on the cold drive. Scrapes burned his cheek and the palms of his hands, where he had caught himself a moment too late. All the breath had been knocked from his chest, and he laid there for what could have been an eternity as he tried to remember how to breathe. But as he laid there, staring out past the twisting trees behind the plantation house, Will saw the hidden shimmer of a very familiar automobile, so glossy black that the blood would roll off its surface.

His stomach clenched, and he pushed himself up to his knees, knowing that there was nothing between him and Hannibal now except for his own weaknesses and a rotting door.

Checking that his pack had survived the fall, Will stood up and brushed himself off with scraped and aching hands. And then he set off again, walking with a purpose and a limp, until he stood in front of the big black door. The paint was peeling off in long strips, letting a faint green hue of old paint and old decisions through. The whole door would need to be painted again, if anyone was ever to move in and make a home of the house. Will rather thought red would look nice, like at Bedelia’s shop. Or maybe just black again, so deep and glossy that the blood would roll off.

He swallowed heavily, and the fingers of one hand went white while gripping the strap of his pack while the fingers of the other folded into a fist and knocked at the door. It sounded how Will imagined a castle’s door would sound, hollow and resonant. In that moment, he took a step back from the door and pulled his pack off his shoulder, rummaging through it to pull out the blanket-wrapped hearts at the bottom.

The door opened as Will was still bent over his pack, and he saw Hannibal’s wing-tipped shoes, immaculately clean, polished to a shine, and hiding their age. Will’s eyes followed up the sharp lines of Hannibal’s pressed trouser legs and patterned, gray suit jacket, all the way up to his lover’s angular face and alligator eyes and wheaten hair—not quite brown, not quite gray. Hannibal’s lips were parted in something like surprise, and Will felt himself mirror his lover, as if his body had never truly expected them to meet again. A dark thrill ran through his core, and Will licked his lips, still staring into Hannibal’s dark eyes.

“You cut your hair.”

It was mundane, it was stupid, it was the last thing Will expected his lover to say, but it was enough to break all the levees. Shoving the bundle of blood and yarn into Hannibal’s chest, Will said, “We need to leave.”

Hannibal frowned as he took the bundle and began to unwrap it. When he saw what laid beneath the blanket, the foreigner brushed a thumb over the cold flesh and looked up to Will, saying, “What have you done, Will?”

“I killed them. The policemen Jack sent.” Will swallowed, looking away from Hannibal for the barest moment to look over his lover’s shoulder and into the plantation house. It was dark, nearly empty, and smelled intimately of Hannibal, like he had been living there forever. Will breathed it in deeply and said, “He wanted me to help him find you. Threatened to take me instead. I…tricked them. Killed them, made them beautiful.” He paused, surveying the shifting of Hannibal’s expression. The frown deepened at first, then relaxed into something almost like pride. Will had seen that look on his father’s face before. And then, the very barest of smiles pulled at the corners of Hannibal’s lips. Not one of his facades, but a genuine pleasure taken from what Will had given him. What Will had sacrificed. Smiling brightly himself, Will said, “I love you.”

The hearts were dropped onto the threshold of the plantation house, and Hannibal’s arms wrapped around Will, pulling him into a tight hug. With his face pressed into the nook of Hannibal’s shoulder, Will’s breaths shuddered, and he realized that never before had he felt so at home as he did where he was now. It was not the bayou or the city or the abandoned plantation house.

It was Dr. Hannibal Lecter.

Will clutched at Hannibal’s back, determined to never let go, and he felt the butterflies return inside him, and vines braid around his ribs, and from the freshly shorn sides of his head, Will almost expected a monarch’s crown to grow, fully formed with antlers twisting around his lover and locking them together forever. He heard Hannibal’s heart beating through his chest and clothes, and as Will realized that it matched his own, he began to think that maybe they were one body split into two by God or by nature. He nuzzled closer into Hannibal’s neck like a butterfly to poison blossom, and between the two coats they wore, it nearly felt like a spring thaw was coming.

Of course, spring was months away, at least in New Orleans. Will sighed, and it was then that Hannibal pushed him away just far enough to reach up and take Will’s scruffy cheeks—one scraped and raw—between his strong, steady hands, elegant in every way Will was not.

“Aš tave myliu,” he murmured, his voice lilting over foreign words with a beautifully native accent. Will stared into alligator eyes, reaching up to hold each of Hannibal’s wrists in place, as the words washed over him like a wave of sweet chicory coffee or spiced rye whiskey or a million butterfly wings or dark bayou water laced with the white bubbles of the last summer thunderstorm. The words were lost on him, but the meaning was not, and in that moment, his vulnerable heart could have been torn from his chest in a masterpiece of deception and betrayal.

But all that came was a soft, warm kiss.

Will moaned against Hannibal’s lips, and in their reunion, it felt to him as if his lover had never been far away at all. His eyes closed against the onslaught of love, and in his mind, all he could see was that first time the foreigner had come to the cabin in the bayou, with trouser legs rolled up around muscular calves, and the merest hint of a smile pulling at the thin lips that now molded against Will’s.

As Will pushed into the kiss, tasting the sweet, bitter words Hannibal had finally given him—a sacrifice of his own—he blinked against tears that stung behind his eyelids, and as he pushed them aside, he relived their first kiss, too short and panicked, and the revelation soon after that alligator eyes did belong to an alligator, after all. Will could have died that night and never suffered all the pleasure or fear or madness.

But then he would not have stood there, under the veranda of an abandoned plantation house, wrapped up in Hannibal’s arms and feeling so vibrant and alive in the New Orleans wintertime.

Finally, and with some reluctance, Will pulled back from the kiss, breathless, and said, “We must go. Now.”

“Where?”

Will paused, eyes flicking between Hannibal’s eyes and his lips, wondering if maybe they had the time to indulge other pleasures. But he knew better now. Shaking his head, Will said, “I don’t know. Lithuania? You’re going back, aren’t you?”

Hannibal laughed, a mere huff of mirthless, bitter heartache, and he said, “Not for a while longer, Will.”

“Somewhere else, then,” Will said with some determination that was born like the springtime from a winter of desperation. “How far can your automobile take us?”

A slow, fond smile spread across Hannibal’s lips, and he pulled Will into his arms again, resting his chin on what remained of Will’s curls. Will happily collapsed into the embrace, and he felt the rumble of his lover’s chest rather than heard the accented voice that said, “Far enough.”

Will closed his eyes and saw behind his eyelids the memory of sitting in that glossy black automobile, driving toward the bayou in the rain, when something like madness—that was in fact love—had first overcome him. He had run then, chasing butterflies and fantasies, away from everyone and buried himself in his isolation and fear. And he would run now, but with a lover at his side. “Far enough,” Will murmured against the warm, scratchy wool of Hannibal’s coat. Far enough that Jack Crawford could never catch them. Far enough that no foxhound could find their scent. Far enough that they could chase the seasons, hungry and divine, and live in vernal, visceral pleasure forever.

Sitting on the staircase with his knees pulled up to his chest and his arms wrapped around his legs, Will watched as Hannibal packed up his bags. The foreigner brushed from one room into the other, like a shadow or a ghost, and Will tried to ignore the pangs of sadness that hit him when he was still and silent. As much as he was willing to sacrifice for Hannibal—and truly, he would give anything, everything—Will couldn’t help but realize that he would miss his life in the bayou. Like a late-born fawn, it would fade into the winter and only its corpse would find its way into the spring, surrounded by magnolias and honeysuckle and the first sedges of the season.

Will sighed, resting his chin on his knee, and angled himself so the last rays of the sunset coming in through one of the plantation house’s broken windows fell across his bare toes, warming them against the chill of the falling day and rising night.

“I wish you could have seen it,” Will said as Hannibal passed by, carrying a large leather suitcase that had two straps wrapped around its body. “I made them beautiful, like art.”

Pausing only for a moment to brush his fingers across the highpoint of Will’s scraped cheekbone, Hannibal smiled softly and said, “There’s always another canvas to paint, Will.” He moved to set the suitcase near the door, and then he was gone, back to the abandoned bedroom that he had made his home over the past several months. It was clear to Will that the plantation house was never meant to be a longterm living arrangement. The kitchen was the only part of the entire house that was still intact, and the rest was an excuse to stay near New Orleans. Near the bayou. Near him, Will thought with a warm pleasure.

Hannibal went back and forth several times, each time bringing suitcases and bags and more luggage than Will had ever considered possible. For all the dozens of suits, he figured. For all the knives and the secrets. For the shoes that foreigners always needed. Will glanced down at his own toes, knowing that he would need new shoes, wherever they went. He would be a foreigner there, unused to the earth there.

“I’m sorry,” Will said when Hannibal brought the last bag. It was inadequate as an apology in every way, and yet Will could offer nothing else. Standing, and feeling the aching wound in his leg burn and the hunger ripple in his stomach, he bit his lip and scratched his scruffy cheek.

“Never be sorry,” Hannibal said, his voice low and dark and with an edge of dangerous passion. “Whatever you do, do it because you cannot bring yourself to do anything else.” He dropped the last bag on the pile and pulled Will up into his arms, wrapping him like a blanket to protect him from the world.

Or to protect the world from Will Graham.

Will sucked in a deep breath, savoring his lover’s scent, and then reached up to pull Hannibal’s head down to his in a brief, intimate kiss. When he broke away, Will said, “We should go.” There was a slight, nearly imperceptible nod, and then Hannibal was picking up two bags in each hand and heading out toward the glossy black automobile behind the house. Will took the rest and followed after him.

They drove through the New Orleans nighttime, unnoticed and free. Will sat in the passenger seat, holding his empty pack in his lap. They had left the hearts and blanket behind, just another message to Jack Crawford, if he ever found the abandoned plantation house without Bedelia’s help. Her red-painted lips were not so easy to part.

Will relaxed into his seat, staring out the window and watching the city he had just met pass by in a blur of yellow streetlights. It could have been any city, then, and he would not have known the difference. Hannibal’s hand rested heavy and firm on his inner thigh, thumb brushing over the top of his leg, and as Hannibal turned north on Elysian Fields Avenue, Will’s heart dropped.

“Wait,” he said frantically, looking at Hannibal’s profile, haloed by the reflections of the outside. When his lover shot him a curious glance, Will said, “Turn around.” Hannibal frowned then, and as he opened his mouth, surely about to remind Will of his own handiwork, Will said first, “Winston is no foxhound, Hannibal.”

Alligator eyes stared straight ahead, down the dark street, and for a moment, Will thought Hannibal might ignore him. But then, those thin lips softened, and Hannibal took the next right, heading east again. With a quiet sigh, Will let his hand, still scraped and burning, come to settle on top of Hannibal’s, holding him tight and focusing his mind on the heat that sustained him. Again, Will turned to look out the window, and leaning his head against it, he said his goodbyes to a lost city. His breath fogged the glass like a bayou haze.

It was dark by the time the automobile’s tires began to grow sluggish against the earth. At the edge of the bayou, the trees looked like a wall or a door or an iron chain draped across a staircase. Will bit his lip and glanced to Hannibal, who frowned and said, “Will he hear you from here?”

Will didn’t respond, just opened the door and stepped back onto the cold ground he knew so well. The soles of his feet didn’t sink into the mud like they would have at any other season, but still Will felt connected to this land, his homeland. Against his bare skin, the winter warmth of nature seemed foreign to him. He crossed to one of the trees and pressed his hand against its bark, enjoying the burn at his aching palm. It might have been the last time, he realized, that he would ever feel a cypress tree at his fingers. Or maybe they grew in other places. Will didn’t know. Had never cared to know until now.

Staring into the darkness, Will called out for Winston, and expected only the frogs and owls to respond. “Goodbye,” he murmured into the bayou, hoping it would carry to the dog, wherever he was. Will hoped he wouldn’t starve, or if he did, Will hoped he would delight in his sacrifice. Grateful the way dogs were, to their owner or their god.

“Will,” Hannibal said from where he stood, back a ways and leaning against his automobile. Glancing over his shoulder, Will expected his lover to say something, but there was nothing for several long moments. The usual stoicism in Hannibal’s expression was replaced by a waver of something that Will thought might have been sympathy. He too, had once had to leave his home, had to become a foreigner and rely on fading memories and old, creased photographs to connect to his own nativity.

Letting his hand fall back to his side, Will turned his back to the bayou and said to Hannibal, his voice a mere murmur that carried through the quiet nighttime, “We all come back, in one way or another. Isn’t that what you said?”

Hannibal nodded once, firm and resolute, and Will smiled at him before throwing his head back to stare up at the clear sky. A silvered moon hung heavy in the sky, and Will could feel its counterweight in the pocket against his chest, keeping the time like a meticulous, passionate lover. The pocket watch could have been Hannibal’s heart, and it would have been the same to Will.

He stood like that until he thought he saw the moon tick forward, until the very long day was behind him and the new one was blooming, and only then did Will come back to his new reality, wrapping his arms around himself and beginning to head back toward Hannibal.

It was then, heralded by a symphony of crackling leaves and happy panting, that Winston came bounding out from the bayou. Will turned and fell to his knees, feeling like his love might break through his ribs and skin, like it might eviscerate him and leave him bare and bloody for all the world to see, completely vulnerable. The dog barreled into him, a fleeting shadow of mottled fur and a lolling tongue. Will wrapped his arms around Winston and fell back, letting the dog sniff and lick at his throat and face. With a bright laugh, Will decided that if he was meant to die tonight, he would not go eagerly—in fact, much less eagerly than ever before—but he would go contented, knowing that he would go home.

Will had no sense of time once Winston sprinted off to greet Hannibal. He just laid there on the cold ground, arms splayed out and chest rising and falling with quick, deep breaths. Staring up at the moon over them, Will smiled and bit his lip, committing this moment to memory so it would be with him no matter where he went. He would be a foreigner, but he wouldn’t be without this piece of his native life.

Finally he clambered to his feet and felt all his residual anxiety settle at his feet and then sink into the earth, removed from him and absorbed by nature, the unrivaled hunter, the most dependable partner.

When he got back into the automobile, Winston on his lap, Will didn’t bother to stare at the bayou as they left. He had all he needed kept safe in his mind, intertwined with vines of madness and connected by fantasies. So instead, he buried his nose in Winston’s fur and closed his eyes, imagining a swarm of monarch butterflies to carry them on a million bright wings. Beside him, Hannibal stared across the dark street, with strong hands steering them toward some new life, far away. And there they would be free. A family of foreigners, finding a native home between them.

_MAY 2, 1920 — BALTIMORE NATIVE RUTH FINDS NEXT HOME RUN, YANKEES BACK ON FEET_

Will thumbed through the newspaper, uninterested in the sports that seemed to dominate this new city. Baseball was popular here, and even though in reality Baltimore was not terribly far from New Orleans—at least, closer than Aukštaitija—it felt to Will like it could have been a different world entirely. 

He lounged in their massive four-poster bed, wearing a silk dressing gown and sitting back against the headboard with a wild mess of pillows behind him. It was more luxurious than anything he’d ever experienced, and yet, in the mere months that he and Hannibal had been in Baltimore, it all began to feel normal. Sometimes he would remind himself that he had lived for more than twenty-five years with nothing more elaborate than kerosene lamps and chicory coffee from a can. And then Hannibal had come into his life, introduced him to real chicory and all the other luxuries of a king.

Streaming through the windows and the heavy burgundy curtains that surrounded them were the last warm rays of sunlight. The days were beginning to grow longer, longer now in the late spring than they ever were in New Orleans, even at the height of summer. The counter to that brightness was a dreary, snowy winter, which Will and Hannibal had just caught the fading, slushy end of when they first arrived.

In the air, Will could smell the savory promise of the dinner Hannibal was cooking downstairs. It promised to be succulent and tender, prepared from the body of the young man who had spent the night before in that very bed with them.

Will couldn’t quite remember his name.

On a plush red rug in the corner, oriental in design and elegance, Winston laid, happily gnawing on a bone Hannibal had already cleaned off for its meat. The dog’s coat looked dirty in their otherwise pristine new home, but no matter how many times Will washed his fur in their porcelain clawfoot bathtub, still the mottled mess remained. The phantoms of mud and bayou filth would remain with Winston forever, more a reminder to Will than to the dog.

Beside Winston’s rug was one of the several large fireplaces in their new house and a large, never-ending stack of fresh firewood. Although it was late spring and warm, Will had a small fire going. The smoke disappeared up a chimney, but the scent of burning oaks seasoned the air, and Will liked the soft flicker that reminded him of kerosene lamps in the way electric lights never could. Over the mantel, Hannibal had hung a large stag’s rack, found hidden in the belongings of the previous owner that were left behind when they moved in. It was not a monarch’s rack, but it was only three points away, so Will had wrapped around its tines three butterflies made of stiff, colored wires.

There came a soft shuffling from the bedroom door, and Will glanced up over the edge of the newspaper to where the door cracked open and his lover appeared, carrying a glass of dark wine in one hand and a glass of rye whiskey in the other.

“It’ll just be another twenty minutes,” Hannibal said, his voice low and sultry.

In those alligator eyes, Will could see a devilish glint, wicked in all the right ways, and as his lover came closer, Will raised a single eyebrow. As Hannibal handed him the glass of whiskey, Will took a sip, savoring the burn, and said, “Well, Dr. Lecter, how do you propose we pass that time? Perhaps a discussion of Babe Ruth’s sudden revival? An analysis of the failures of Prohibition?” For emphasis, he waved the newspaper in his lover’s direction before throwing it aside, where it came to a rustling rest on the glossy hardwood floor.

Hannibal smirked, shaking his head in amusement as he climbed up onto the bed. “You’re learning the language well,” he said, taking a long sip of wine.

“I was taught well.”

There was a brief moment in which Hannibal’s eyes went dark, and then, before Will could look away, there were hot, spiced lips at his own. Letting out a soft moan of surprise, Will carefully extracted his glass of whiskey, holding it aside so it wouldn’t spill between them. Without looking or losing his typical elegance, Hannibal reached out to set his glass of wine on the bedside table, where the dark drink glistened under the multicolored light of the electric lamp. Its shade was of stained glass, like it had been taken from one of the enormous churches a few streets down.

Kissing down Will’s throat and over the lustrous green silk of his dressing gown, Hannibal shifted down the bed until his chest hovered over Will’s thighs and his fingers brushed across Will’s hips.

“Won’t our dinner burn?” Will asked, cautious in his words but not in his tone. He watched as a few strands of wheaten hair fell from their place and into Hannibal’s face. Biting his lip, Will brought his glass of whiskey closer again and took a long sip. His lover’s features warped through the glass and the drink, and perhaps it was a result of madness that Will still found him impossibly handsome.

Hannibal’s fingers worked at the silk belt of the dressing gown, and he said, “Only if I’ve somehow lost my talents.”

Will snickered, and then the laughter became a muffled gasp as Hannibal’s mouth pressed against the side of his cock. By instinct, Will reached down to card his fingers through Hannibal’s hair, combing it back into place before destroying it again. His hips pressed forward, aching for more contact, and Hannibal obliged him by wrapping one steady hand around the length of his cock and brushing his thumb across its head. Swallowing heavily, Will let out a low moan as Hannibal took him in his mouth.

His cock brushed the back of Hannibal’s throat, and the tongue cupping the underside of his shaft rippled as his lover swallowed him down. And oh, how Will loved to be eaten by Hannibal. Will let his head fall back, staring up at the ceiling of their bedroom, and he gripped Hannibal’s hair tight enough that Hannibal groaned around him, and the vibrations ran up Will’s body like a hot shiver.

Will felt rather than watched as Hannibal’s head bobbed up and down the length of his cock, and each shuddering breath he took tasted like rye whiskey and smelled like a freshly cooked meal, like Hannibal and Winston, like wood stain and turpentine, and like something underlying it all.

He took another sip of his drink, and Hannibal’s hand went to cup his balls just as Will was about to swallow, and he almost choked on his own pleasure. He felt drunk on it all, and as a heavy warmth pooled in his core, Will finally recognized the scent for what it was. Sucking in deep breaths of it, Will let it wrap around his ribs, and it filled him with fluttering butterfly wings, threatening to lift his body into the air and carry him away, toward some southern mountain. But it was with all the will of a heady monarch stag that Will weighed himself down, perfectly happy to stay right where he was, warm and safe and buried in the luxuries of love and life.

Looking down to Hannibal again, Will found himself overwhelmed with the beauty of the scene. Glancing up at him through his eyelashes, Hannibal gave a series of inquisitive hums, nearly in a familiar melody, and Will lost himself. He came hard, one hand holding tight to the glass of rye and the other yanking at his lover’s hair.

When Hannibal pulled away with a wet pop of his lips, Will felt a dark flush rise to his cheeks. The hand in Hannibal’s hair fell to caress his lover’s cheek, running a thumb over his glossy and reddened lower lip. Without hesitation, Hannibal took Will’s thumb in his mouth, and Will bit his lip before saying, “Hannibal, dinner.”

“What’s wrong with an appetizer?” Hannibal asked then, cocking his head to the side. Immediately Will snorted, and Hannibal smiled before crawling up the bed until he could flop beside Will, both of their backs to the headboard, their legs tangled like vines and moss and branches. As Hannibal reached out to retrieve his glass of wine, Will rested his head against his lover’s shoulder. Soon an arm snaked around his back to rest at his hip, where a dark and bruised bite mark remained, only a few days old, as well as a long, glossy scar from a lifetime ago. Similar marks covered Will head to toe, and as one faded, Hannibal was quick to add another. The real secret, Will imagined, was that Hannibal, too, bore the marks of their love and their hunger and the twisted meeting of the two. Marring his perfection, or contributing to it, were straight, shallow cuts of a kitchen knife, bite marks, and series of scrapes from clawed fingernails. Usually they were hidden beneath the expensive fabrics of Hannibal’s suits, but in their new house—which may as well have been a castle, as far as Will was concerned—they were proudly on display.

“Do you smell that?” Will murmured as Hannibal sipped his wine. He could hear his lover swallow through the flesh and bone and blood of his chest, as if they were one body separated only by a technicality.

“What does it smell like?”

Will stared out the window, over the main street they lived on and into the late spring park on the other side, where the oaks and ashes and maples and pines were verdant and heavy. He took a sip of his rye and let his fingers draw idle patterns on the checked fabric of Hannibal’s trousers. His own bare legs, surrounded by green silk, looked so pale in comparison. He waited several moments, breathing in that scent before he named it: “Home.”

There was a quiet moment during which Will considered asking Hannibal to buy a phonograph for their bedroom, like the one they had downstairs in the dining room. Soon they would have to go down and set on a disc—but not before bickering over which one. Will would insist on _The Firebird_ , that Parisian fantasy Bedelia had given him, and Hannibal would beg for anything else. Fondness overwhelmed Will as he imagined Hannibal telling him that listening to the same music over and over would rot his mind. Will would counter by saying that his mind was already ruined, and it was Hannibal who had set the rot in. Then Hannibal would go on about Freud or some other nonsense that he’d taken up since their relocation to Baltimore.

After spending a month working as a surgeon, Hannibal grew bored of the tedium and the oversight, so he took up another form of medicine, one that was very near to him, indeed: madness. It was a decent living if nothing else, and it left Hannibal enough time to be at home, in any of their dozen immaculately furnished rooms. Much of his time was spent in the kitchen, butchering or preparing or plating. Most of it was with Will by his side, except when Will himself was working.

That was its own irony, Will supposed. He had taken up a beat for the Baltimore Police Department, using instinct and wit to tune the delicate symphony of city crime. Where one section was overpowering, a beautiful solo went unheard in another. And all Will needed was a baton to conduct the masterpiece. Sometimes he tried to imagine what Jack Crawford would think, to see Will Graham in a policeman’s uniform, his name stitched in white over his heart. It was not out of the realm of possibility, Will knew, that one day he could become the next Price or Zeller.

“Yes, I smell it,” Hannibal finally said, his voice a low rumble of wine and contentment. Will finished his whiskey, feeling that same warmth fill whatever cracks remained in him.

And that’s all they were then. Rye whiskey and red wine. One modest and smoked, the other elegant and spiced. Both with the burn of fire down the throat and the madness of nature or God or whatever abomination had created them. Will’s head felt heavy as if with a crown as he rested against Hannibal. He was a king in his own castle, and as roots sank down into this new earth, Will thought he might be okay even if he never met the bayou again.

After giving a contented sigh and getting in return a rumble from his stomach, Will reached for the pocket watch on the bedside table and brushed his fingers over the silver butterfly on its front. He popped the pocket watch open and studied the time before looking up at Hannibal. Despite his reluctance to move from this perfect pleasure, Will said, “I’m starved.”

“Then let’s eat.”

Very slowly, they crawled out of their bed, leaving the pillows and quilts a mess behind them. It wouldn’t be long before they retired for the night, after their customary cup of chicory coffee. And then it wouldn’t matter how all the extravagant fabrics looked. Under it all, they were nothing but animals or monsters, blood and bone wrapped in fragile flesh that was sweet and salty to the taste. The rest, as a few of Will’s new Baltimorean friends would say, was gravy.

Will rubbed the sleep from his eyes as he sat at their breakfast table, hunched over a steaming cup of chicory coffee and flipping through the morning’s newspaper. The bright summer light flooded the kitchen as if the golden sun was hanging just a few feet over his head. All his curls had grown back, kept now at a reasonable length and combed regularly. Of course, that didn’t mean they weren’t still wild whenever Hannibal ran his fingers through them. Will would never lose that last edge of his ancestry.

“Sausage or bacon?” Hannibal asked from where he stood at the stovetop with his back to Will.

Glancing up to admire the way Hannibal’s dress shirt—a soft pink striped through with deep red threads, rusty like blood, perfect and straight like a knife’s cut—pulled across his broad, strong shoulders, Will said, “Surprise me. Unless it’s catfish. I’ll always choose catfish.”

Hannibal’s shoulders shook slightly, and Will could hear the amused smile as his lover said, “No catfish for breakfast, Will. Salmon, perhaps. But not catfish.”

Will scoffed in playful disapproval as he drank his coffee, jumping a little as a splash fell onto and faded into the dark blue wool of his uniform. Grimacing, he used a cloth napkin to press at the wet spot. Hannibal had taken a liking to Will’s new style, especially for work, and it wouldn’t do for the crisp professionalism to be marred by a bit of chicory coffee. Against any additional spills, Will tucked the napkin into his collar so it hung down over his chest, just obscuring his name, _Graham_ , that was embroidered into his chest. Glancing down at his polished shoes, so black and glossy that the spilled coffee rolled off like blood.

A few minutes later, with the kitchen smelling of some divine meal, Hannibal carried three plates over to the breakfast table, setting one in front of Will, another at the place setting just to Will’s left, and the last on the floor beside the table for Winston. He sat then at Will’s side, such that his back was to the window and a bright halo backlit him and made his wheaten hair glow, somehow a mix of golden and silvered.

Will set the newspaper aside and smiled at his lover. In another world, he imagined, in another lifetime, maybe they would have been married. But if Alana and Margot were not afforded that luxury, neither were they, despite their wealth and power. But Will didn’t need a ring or a certificate. A hot meal was enough.

“How many appointments do you have today?” Will asked, digging into his meal of eggs and meat and bright speckles of vegetables from the corner grocer. It was as delicious as he expected, and his stomach growled for more.

After taking a sip of his own coffee, Hannibal said, “Only six. First, a Mr. Froideveaux at nine. When making his appointment, he informed me that all the other psychiatrists he has seen—nine of them—have turned him away. They couldn’t help him.”

“And you can?” Will raised an eyebrow as he chewed slowly, letting his fork dangle in the air between his mouth and his plate.

A dark smirk pulled at Hannibal’s thin lips, and he mirrored Will before saying, “I’m a doctor, Will. Saving people is what I do.”

Just as Will was about to respond, to make some wry comment about saving Abigail, there came a heavy series of knocks that rang through the house from the foyer. Will had insisted on adding a large brass knocker to their glossy, dark green door. He had chosen one in the shape of an alligator, and it looked as if it was emerging from the bayou.

Hannibal was the first to stand, and Will followed in his footsteps toward the foyer. For a moment, it felt like they were creatures on the hunt. They came to stand at the door, with Will’s chest pressing up against Hannibal’s back, off-center so he could see around his lover’s shoulder as Hannibal put on his most genial face and opened the door, saying, “Good morning, may I help you?”

It was a courier, just a young and mousy boy that looked too familiar, almost like one of the New Orleans newsboys. Will blinked a few times, and in that time, the courier produced a large, twine-wrapped package from behind himself.

Reading off the scrawls on the package’s brown paper, the courier said, “Dr. Lecter or Mr. Graham?”

“That’s us,” Will said, frowning at the way his own voice sounded so foreign, so accented and dangerous. In their home, he never seemed to notice it, the way he picked up the lilt of a European tongue and the way Hannibal learned the muddy languor of a creole.

Sometimes—when they laid in bed, wrapped around each other, or sat on their dark red leather couch in their living room with only a stray hand or foot in contact—Hannibal would teach him bits and pieces of his native language. Three little words first, the ones that Hannibal would murmur into Will’s ear when he thought Will was asleep. The ones that Will had to beg for, the ones that Hannibal said every day in a million other ways that avoided direct translation. With his head pressed against his lover’s shoulder, or with Hannibal’s nose in a book or newspaper, or with a mottled mutt laying between them such that occasionally their hands brushed each other when petting him, Will would try the words over his tongue, testing them in his accent and taking Hannibal’s revisions until he had it right. Until he could whisper against Hannibal’s bitten and broken skin, “Aš tave myliu.”

“Package from New Orleans.” Will shivered as the courier spoke and his fantasy faded back into reality.

He could feel Hannibal’s shoulders go tense under his pinstriped shirt. “Who sent this package?” Hannibal asked, an edge of a growl to the lowest tones of his voice.

The courier seemed to shy away as he said, “I’m not sure, sir. All it says is nine, nine, nine.”

“Trejos devynerios,” Hannibal said, although the tension in his body didn’t fade. Will frowned. The words sounded familiar, but he couldn’t quite place them. Lithuanian, certainly, but not a part of the everyday lexicon that Will was slowly learning. Reaching out for the package, Hannibal said to the courier, “Thank you. Is that all?”

Nodding, the courier said, “Yes, sir. Have a nice day.” And then he turned on his heel and scurried away, as if standing on their porch for a moment more would kill him.

Will stepped back, giving Hannibal room to carry the package into their foyer and set it on an alder wood hall table decorated with elaborate parquetry and a tall vase filled with waxy white magnolia blossoms. The box was large, about a foot and a half in each dimension, and on its top was their address in Baltimore, which they had been exceptionally careful to protect from anyone who might have followed them north. And indeed, as the courier said, on the top left corner of the package were three delicate nines, underscored so they might not be mistaken as sixes.

“What could it be?” Will said as he came up next to his lover, reaching out to slip a finger under the mess of twine and knots.

Hannibal shook his head and reached for a sharpened letter opener in one of the table’s drawers. The twine fell away like sinews, and then the heavy brown paper like skin. What remained underneath was a square hatbox, its lid stamped with a small logo and beneath the logo, the company’s origin: New Orleans. Will swallowed heavily and glanced sidelong at Hannibal, who wasted no time in opening the box and setting the lid aside.

Inside, laid on top of everything else, was a postcard addressed to both Hannibal and Will. Hannibal snatched it up before Will could read any further. The glossy back of the postcard showed a bayou scene, looking to Will like a Parisian fantasy. After a few moments in which Hannibal’s eyes flitted over the postcard once, then twice, he finally looked up to Will and said, “Bedelia says hello.”

In the meantime, Will had begun to dig through the box, pulling out a thick stack of Tribune issues, all covered in bright red ink. The one on top made Will’s heart drop. It was dated January 2, 1920, less than a week after their escape, and the headline made Will’s voice shake as he read it aloud: “Axeman accomplice found dead with policeman victims.” He skimmed the article, looking at the places where Bedelia and starred and circled and underlined as he glanced up at Hannibal and said, “My God, he saved us.”

“Who?”

Will smiled then, dark and dangerous, and set the first newspaper aside to look at the next, which had a large portrait of Detective Jack Crawford under the headline: _CRAWFORD WINS OFFICE AFTER CHIEF OF POLICE HEART ATTACK._ Pushing the newspaper into Hannibal’s hands and going back to the first issue, Will said, “It says Crawford found a hunter and two policemen all dead in the bayou. But no one else…” He read further, then his face soured. “They’re saying the policemen died from shotgun wounds. That’s not how I did it. That’s not—”

“Will,” Hannibal said, taking the newspaper from him and laying them all beside the hatbox’s lid before taking Will’s scruffy face between his hands. “Sometimes we must let go of pride for our own protection. Give the Axeman credit, if it means you are safe. Your belly is full, and that is all any animal needs.”

Still frowning but letting the indignant tension in his shoulders dissipate, Will gave a single nod and was met with a brief, warm kiss that melted all that remained of his bitterness.

When Hannibal released him, Will turned back to the hatbox as his lover flipped through more of the newspapers. At the bottom, sitting on top of a sealed envelope, was a large chicory root. One that one would have been worth more than Will could ever fathom but now was worth only an hour’s work. He picked it up carefully, turning it in his hands with a reverence because he knew that not long before, it had been Dr. Bedelia Du Maurier who held it. He brought the root to his nose, and under the chicory earthiness, he could almost catch a whiff of her sultry perfume.

For a moment, as they looked at each other curiously, Will and Hannibal bickered in familiar silence over who would take and open the letter. Finally Will reached for it and ran his thumb over the smooth paper of the envelope and the dark ink of Bedelia’s handwriting that addressed the letter to _Gods, Monsters_. Handing the envelope to Hannibal, who held the letter opener like a knife, Will said, “Will we ever see her again?”

“Bedelia travels far and wide, and it’s clear she knows where to find us. Perhaps some day we may all reconvene at my estate and share a meal.”

As Hannibal pulled the letter out of the envelope, Will took a deep breath and called out for Winston, who came bounding down the stairs after a few seconds. Reaching down to pet his beloved dog, Will murmured to him, “Bedelia says hello, boy. I know you never met her, but I’m sure you’ve smelled her.” Winston looked up at him with big, blank eyes full of love, and Will smiled as he scratched behind the dog’s floppy ears. “Your breakfast is ready, you know,” Will said, pointing Winston back toward the kitchen. With a loll of the tongue that looked like a smile, Winston nuzzled close against Will’s leg before trotting off to find his meal.

“She says to be careful,” Hannibal said then, having read the letter through. Offering the letter out to Will, Hannibal continued, “Or we will find ourselves hunted.”

Will took the letter back and ran his fingertips over it just as the grandfather clock under the stairs chimed the hour. He and his lover exchanged knowing glances. It was time for them both to go to work, to leave their home and perform their duties to the world. But they would return in the evening, as nature insisted.

And anyway, they knew all about hunting.

**Author's Note:**

> [novamare on tumblr](http://www.novamare.tumblr.com)   
>  [carrioncrowned on tumblr](http://www.carrioncrowned.tumblr.com)


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